


Slipstream

by khorazir



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Awkward Romance, Bickering, Case Fic, Cycling, Cycling typical injuries, F/F, France - Freeform, Homophobia, Hurt/Comfort, Internalised Homophobia, M/M, Mutual Pining, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pining, Sharing a Bed, Strangers to Friends to Lovers, Tour de France AU, discussions of drug use and doping, roomsharing, sports AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-12
Updated: 2019-06-20
Packaged: 2019-07-11 15:26:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 93,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15975143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/khorazir/pseuds/khorazir
Summary: It’s going to be the last Tour de France for professional cyclist John Watson. Despite the hardships of cycling more than 3000 kilometres in three weeks, in blistering heat and torrential rain, over dangerous cobblestones in northern France and the mountains of the Alps and the Pyrenees, battling thirst, hunger, injury and exhaustion, not to mention bitchy rivals, doping allegations, and the ever scoop-hungry press, he is going to enjoy the ride, damn it. That’s what John keeps telling himself – until he meets his new teammate, Sherlock Holmes, who adds a whole new list of problems as well as an extra dose of excitement to John’s life





	1. Team Presentation: 6 July, London

**Author's Note:**

> I’ve been toying with the idea of writing at proper Tour de France AU with the boys as professional cyclists ever since sending them cycling up a pass in the French Alps in my fic [_Over Hill and Under Hill_](https://archiveofourown.org/works/477582/chapters/828977). So here we are. For those waiting for the next installments in my [_Over/Under_](https://archiveofourown.org/series/34840) or [_Summer Boy_](https://archiveofourown.org/series/799755) series, I still have plans to continue these, particularly the latter one, but I have to get this story out of my system first. 
> 
> As for writing about the Tour de France, I’m no professional cyclist, and will certainly be taking some artistic liberties in depicting the life of these folks. I did, however, research quite thoroughly. An avid cyclist myself, I’ve even cycled some parts of the route the boys are going to take. I deliberately opted against including any presently active pro-cycling teams, nor any riders. There will be references to real-life persons who are either dead or retired from cycling, but this is an alternative universe, meaning the 2018 Tour de France will not be won by Geraint Thomas ;). 
> 
> I’ll try to explain most of the technical or organisational stuff about the Tour if they are relevant for the story, such as the various classifications the riders compete in. Mostly, these explanations will occur in-story, but sometimes I may add a little extra information in the form of footnotes. Also, feel free to ask if things lack explanation or are confusing. While I try to do the world of professional cycling justice and will add the odd critical remark as well, this story is mostly supposed to be fun. So yeah, glad to have you on this ride and I hope you’ll enjoy it.

_This is nice,_ thinks John Watson when he unloads his bags onto one of the two beds and looks around. The window of his hotel room overlooks The Strand. Despite heavy traffic on the street, the room remains fairly quiet, the joys of double or even triple glazing. _It’s strange to be starting the Tour de France in my home city_ , muses John as he watches red buses and black taxis pass by below, _and in this relative luxury, too. Not bad for a start. Not bad at all._

Martha Hudson, the owner of John’s cycling team – or co-owner he should say, as there is a second company on board now – generally seeks to provide good accommodation for her cyclists and staff. Apart from one memorable occasion a few years ago when a hotel didn’t register a booking, leaving the team homeless for some frantic hours of scouting the remote towns and villages in the southern Pyrenees for a place to stay for the night (and that after a gruelling mountain stage with temperatures in the high twenties even on the mountain passes), Team Speedy’s has always been housed, if not luxuriously, but adequately. Indeed, some of the hotels they’ve stayed in over the years have become so familiar to John that he knows the owners personally. In some cases, he looks forward to revisiting them whenever the grand circus of the Tour de France passes their way. Places such as Pau in Provence, or Le Grand Bornand in the French Alps, and of course Paris, are staples of the Tour and John knows them by heart – as he knows France by now. He can even speak passable French without ever having learned it properly at school.

It shouldn’t surprise him, though, how well he picked up the language. After all, this is going to be his sixteenth (and last) Tour de France. He has spent a lot of time in this country, not just during the biggest and most important (and arguably hardest) cycling race in the world, but also on a great number of smaller races. Ever since starting out as a professional road cyclist aged twenty-two, after having competed in amateur mountain-bike races since he was sixteen (cross-country and downhill), he missed only one Tour de France, back in 2010, when he’d crashed during Paris-Roubaix in the spring, shattering his collar-bone and damaging his shoulder so severely that he was in no shape to compete in any large stage race until the autumn. He rode a passable Vuelta then and managed to nick one stage win. Even now his left shoulder twinges now and again. The rest of his body seems more conscious of his age each passing year. He will turn forty in September. This makes him almost the oldest rider in the peloton apart from indestructible Larry Selden who rides for Team Baskerville now, and has about two months on John age-wise.

John and Larry, they have seen it all. The doping scandals of the early noughties that claimed many of the big names, the coming and going of teams and sponsors, the changing perception of professional road cycling in the press and in public opinion. Now with the constant rise of e-bikes, John sometimes wonders whether the days of human-power bicycles aren’t numbered anyway. Even now there are rumours of tiny motors hidden in the slender frames of road bikes, there to provide the critical boost during a climb or sprint. Of course, controls are tight, as they are for illicit substances, blood doping, you name it. John can proudly claim he’s never used any of them. Riding clean has always been his motto. Even when team doctors almost routinely administered doping as part of medication to treat injuries or aid recovery, John always remained critical of what he was given or told to take, and more often than not refused. It has served him well. His reputation is untainted, and he is generally well-liked and trusted in the world of professional road cycling.

This is the reason, he supposes, why he has been invited back for another Tour. He’s too old to hope for anything even close to a good placement in the general classification. During his best seasons he once made the top ten. John knows he’s never been one to ride for a potential win of the Tour de France, Giro d’Italia, Vuelta a España, or any of the great stage races. The Spring classics have been more his metier. He usually did well in the day races in Flanders, Belgium and Italy early in the year, winning the Flèche Wallonne and Milano-San Remo, and twice coming second at Paris-Roubaix. Other than that, John Watson has always been good for a surprise stage win. According to the cycling world and the press, he is ‘King of the Breakaway’.

Breaking away from the peloton, riding long stretches alone in the wind or accompanied by a small group of hopefuls for a stage win, those are John’s specialities. He is a passable climber because of his small size and relative strength, although not generally a man for the high Alps or Pyrenees with their long, winding ascents. At the same time he can hold a steady, high pace over a long stretch, even though he is no expert at time trialling. Slightly hilly, undulating terrain with climbs of the lower categories are his favourite stages, because here the chance of a breakaway actually reaching the finish line first are higher than on flat stages geared towards the sprinters. On the flats those teams aiming for a win in the points category usually catch breakaways, sometimes mere metres before the finishing line, and their sprinters, having ridden in their teammates’ slipstream for most of the stage and thus conserving energy for the last effort, snatch the stage wins. In the high mountains the teams vying for the overall victory attack relentlessly on difficult climbs and often win these stages. Only sometimes, an especially fit and dedicated climber who doesn’t present any danger in the general classification is allowed to slip away and win the stage. John was lucky once and won one alpine stage in a daring escape years ago, when a minor accident delayed some of the big name riders on the ascent to Col du Glandon. John’s victory was helped by the fact that he is excellent on the descents, one of the best downhill racers (a leftover from his mountain-bike days), who in his younger days was willing to risk all to not lose time during a decent. John is always a contender for the most combative rider: constantly attacking or breaking away from the main group, breaking up the other teams’ strategies with his unpredictability and forcing them to react. This has earned him the red number on his back, a coveted price among the riders, for several consecutive years.

But normally, and especially now that he is basically a dinosaur among all those young, ambitious riders, some of them only about half his age, John knows the main reason he is still allowed to tag along is his experience. He has even been made team captain, a title usually reserved either for the team’s main contender for the general or for the points classification – the best sprinter. There are some new faces on his team this year. He doesn’t even know the final roster yet, which is odd. There have been some last minute changes, they’ve been told, but nothing beyond that. No names, not even rumours, nothing. Hence, John is incredibly curious to finally learn who his other eight teammates are at this afternoon’s team presentation. It’s unusual for things to be this chaotic. In previous years, the team would spend more time together in the weeks prior to the Tour for some final training and getting used to each other, especially when new people had been signed on during the season. But this year so far – the luxurious accommodation aside – everything seems to be going downhill a little, to remain in a state of flux John doesn’t exactly appreciate. He may be unpredictable on his bike, but he likes his surroundings to be neat and orderly and, well, predictable, thank you very much.

Ever since James Sholto, their official team captain and man for the general classification, crashed almost fatally a few weeks ago during the Dauphiné Liberé, a smaller stage race that many teams use in preparation for the Tour because it often contains similar stages, Team Speedy’s/Sussex Honey has nobody to seriously attempt to actually win the Tour. They might do well again in the team classification, which they won last year. John wonders whether someone new has been brought in for the general, or if the team is going for stage wins and perhaps the Mountain and Young Rider categories only this time. They have a passable sprinter in young Bainbridge, who is bloody fast but lacks some of the experience and killer instinct sprinters such as Mark Morstan from Team CAM possess and which only come with years of racing. It’s Bainbridge’s second Tour only, so there’s much for him to learn. Anderson is always a force to be reckoned with in the high Alps and the Pyrenees, being the team’s best climber. Hoping to win the prestigious Alpe d’Huez stage one day, John knows that Anderson is disappointed that the Tour won’t go there this year. There is no team time trial in this Tour, which may explain why there has been so little information about the final roster. Only two individual time trials and the short prologue tomorrow are scheduled, meaning that no time trialling specialists will be needed, nor was the team to train especially for this difficult discipline. So unless management has decided they want to score on these stages as well, they can take them as easy as possible to conserve energy for others. Dimmock isn’t too bad in this category. As for the rest, they’ll have to wait and see. New co-sponsor, some new teammates ... at least most of the staff are still the same by all accounts: the technicians, physiotherapists, doctors, nutritionists, drivers ... John has been with this team for the past seven years, and it’s become his family.

John opens the bag containing the official kit, curious what the new jerseys, shorts, helmets and other gear will look like. The team presentation is going to take place in less than two hours, so he’d better start to make himself presentable, as there’s going to be a short meeting of the team beforehand. Greg Lestrade, the manager and trainer, will want to give a bit of a pep talk, and caution the youngsters against being too cocky with the press. On his way to the hotel John saw the stage and large screens taking up half of Trafalgar Square. London’s Mayor, Sadiq Kahn, and the head of the Tour, Christian Prudhomme, are going to be there, as well as representatives of the sponsors, of cycling corporations, of the press ... John isn’t looking forward to their questions.

Team Speedy’s is going to be in the limelight again. James Sholto’s accident has garnered increased interest in the team, not all of it positive. Security measures and decisions have been questioned and discussed ad infinitum by plenty of self-styled experts on social media. John tried to stay out of it as best he could. In fact, he tries not to think about James too much. He isn’t the first teammate John has seen crash, not even the first to crash right in front of him. Accidents and injuries are part of their daily life as professional cyclists. John has stopped counting how many times he crashed and broke bones, tore open skin, suffered sprains and bruises. Still, seeing James lie by the roadside, his one leg bent at an unnatural angle with what looked like an additional joint where none should be, and worse, blood welling from under his helmet, his cycling shorts and the skin underneath scraped off by the rough asphalt ... John shudders and hastens to unpack the stack of jerseys, shorts and other gear. He still dreams of James’ crash. Better not dwell on it now, so close to being forced to talk to the bloodhounds out there.

Thankfully, the design of the outfit hasn’t changed much. The shorts are still mostly black with a red bar at the hems. This year, a faint pattern has been added. Looking closer, John recognises it as honeycomb. Because of the co-sponsor, apparently, whose logo, a stylised bee, is printed on the side of the jersey and the left side of the chest, and on one leg of the shorts. The jersey retains the broad red bar across the middle representing, or so Martha Hudson once told him, the original awning of Speedy’s Café, the place where she started her catering empire. There, in white lettering, the name ‘Speedy’s’ is printed. White bars sit above and below the red. The sleeves and shoulders are black honeycomb again, the rest of the shirt below and above the red bar is solid black, the short collar and the zip are red and white.

“Looks good”, John decides, holding it in front of himself in the full-length mirror. He appreciates its plainness. Some of the other teams tend to wear rather garish patterns and colours. Team Baskerville, sponsored by some chemical research company, is usually attired neon green, looking as if it might glow in the dark. Actually, the colour is pretty irritating because it’s so similar to the green jersey of the best sprinter. But then, of course teams would mainly wear their sponsor’s colours. And some sponsor logos are just ... well ... According to Team Speedy’s chief physiotherapist Mike Stamford, Team UPS in their brown and yellow “looked like shit” last year. John wouldn’t have put it that crassly. After all, the team outfits weren’t as horrible now as back in the nineties, when teenager John sat glued to the television watching the Tour, dreaming that one day, he might be allowed to participate. And now here he is, hours away from the last team presentation of his career …

John steps over to the window again and looks out. London is baking in the unholy glare of a prolonged heat wave. Some of the plane trees near St. Martin-in-the-Fields are already sporting yellow leaves, John noticed on his way to the hotel. Conditions on the roads are going to be tough from the very beginning. In some parts of the UK, the asphalt melted, swallowing the tyres of cars and lorries – conditions one usually only encounters in the South of France. Normally, John doesn’t mind hot temperatures during races, provided there is enough water and electrolyte drinks, and an air conditioned room to sleep in. Cold and wet are usually worse, because then his shoulder starts aching and his knees play up. He tends to feel his advanced age doubly then. He sighs as he looks out over the city. Starting the Tour in London is new even for John, and with a room at the Savoy, too. He smiles, turns and glances at the second bed. Just as he wonders who he’s going to be sharing with, a knock sounds at the door. Kit Hunter, the youngest rider on the team at twenty-one, pops in his shaggy head. He is already wearing the new gear, and as usual, he is grinning.

“Hi, John. All right?”

John is tempted to reply with “No worries, mate,” upon hearing Kit’s New South Wales accent, but resists. Kit, being one of the few non-Brits on the team apart from Gregson and Hopkins who are Americans, and Anderson who originally hails from Denmark but has lived in the UK most of his life, usually responds to such barbs in good humour. Despite his high spirits, he looks nervous, though, therefore John decides not to tease him. “Hi, Kit, sure. All fitted out already, I see.”

“Yeah. It’s great, isn’t it? The hotel, I mean. Quite posh. And so close to Trafalgar Square.”

John nods and smiles, wondering whether he’s also been as excitable when he was this young. “Don’t get used to it, Kit. This is quite unusual, and some of the places we’re going to stay at in the weeks to come are going to be quite basic. So enjoy it while you can. Who are you rooming with?”

“Jonathan Dimmock, like during the Dauphiné. It’s cool. He doesn’t snore. Takes a bit long in the shower sometimes, but we get along well. And you?”

“Dunno, actually. I used to share with James.”

Kit nods gravely. “Have you heard any news?”

John shrugs. “Only that he’s about to have surgery again on his leg. He’s lucky he survived, although he might not think so right now. He seemed pretty depressed when I last spoke to him on the phone.”

“So he won’t be riding again?”

John shakes his head sadly, swallowing around the lump in his throat. “The doctors said he’s going to be lucky to walk again. But you know James. He’s tough. He’ll manage. Guess you’ll have to ride for GC this year,” John says and winks.

Kit blushes. “Shit, no, mate. I still believe the Dauphiné was an accident.”

“What, you winning the Young Rider classification there? Perhaps you’re just that good.”

Kit runs a hand through his hair, looking embarrassed and touched at the same time. “Thanks, John. I still can’t believe they actually asked me to ride the fucking Tour. I mean, the actual Tour de France. A year ago I was still riding amateur races back in Australia and repairing bikes and surfboards in my spare time. And now I’m here. Pro and all.” He bounces on his feet with barely contained excitement, which looks funny because of the cycling shoes that aren’t exactly made for walking. John smiles at him. To be that young and green again ...

“Oh, oh, John, do you know? I heard rumours Greg has signed up someone new last minute. Don’t know whether for GC or TT. Not sure what to think about that, honestly. I mean, he’d not have trained with us at all and everything. How would that even work, especially since the season has been on for half a year? I thought most riders would have found a new team by the Spring.”

“Well, we’re at least one man short, if there haven’t been any other last minute changes. But like you, I have no idea who still might be team-less at this time. I heard Jan Adler from Austria, formerly of Team Selters, is still out because of doping allegations, and I doubt Greg would have signed him on. He’s Irene’s brother, did you know, but they’re not close. Jonathan Small wanted to skip the Tour and prepare for the Vuelta instead, having ridden the Giro already. Have you heard any other names?”

“No, it’s all very hush hush. Not even Molly knows, and she usually knows everything. Well, I guess we’ll see soon. Perhaps you’ll be rooming with that new bloke. Or you’ll have a room to yourself for once.”

“Yes, perhaps. Usually Anderson has the single room, though, because he snores so much. Anyway, hope my new roommate doesn’t snore, either, or skype half the night with his wife and kids back home, like Gregson and Hopkins.”

Kit grins and waves farewell to John. “See you later.”

“Yeah, see you.”

Shaking his head about Kit’s youthful enthusiasm, John chooses the outfit to wear later, and begins to unbutton his shirt. His heart feels heavy of a sudden. A strange anxiety that has nothing to do with being nervous about stepping out in front of the press is taking hold of him. It’s good to be with the team again, his true family. And yet ... this year everything is so odd, so different. Too many changes and uncertainties, too much happening out of the usual. The secrecy, the last minute decisions are not how Greg Lestrade usually runs Team Speedy’s. He is all about transparency. But he, too, was shaken by Sholto’s crash. John knows he blames himself for it, as does chief technician Molly Hooper who still believes that it was a problem with the seatpost of James’ bike that contributed to the accident. John knows that ultimately, nobody but James is to blame. James, and John.

He sighs, running his fingers over the smooth material of the jersey before shedding his shirt. “Into battle, Watson,” he tells himself quietly.

 

**– <o>–**

 

Trafalgar Square is a riot of colourful advertising. A large crowd has assembled in front of the stage and screens, eager to see the teams and their bicycles, and to snatch a water bottle or some other promotional item. Flags, balloons and giant hand-shaped signs are waving in the audience. Many onlookers have arrived on bicycles and are wearing yellow jerseys, or green ones or white ones with red polka dots similar to the one awarded to the winner of the Mountain classification. Others have donned jerseys of last year’s Tour de France teams, or of local cycling clubs. Some have come straight from work, their suit jackets over their arms and their shirt-sleeves rolled up because of the heat. Tourists have flocked to the square as well. Some have climbed onto the lion statues for a better view. The mood is expectant and quite buoyant. Whatever anxiety befell John back in his room, it’s abated somewhat now. He’s in his element, dressed in cycling gear, surrounded by his teammates, many of whom he counts as his friends. The adoration of the onlookers ... The only time he is happier and more at ease with himself and the world is when he is actually riding his bicycle.

Since a member of their team came second in last year’s general classification, Speedy’s will be the second to last team to step onto the stage, followed by last year’s winner, Team Shad Sanderson. John watches them as they stand a little to the side of Team Speedy’s, their outfits mostly silver with some black and bright yellow, sleek and sophisticated. That’s the way their sponsor, an influential London bank, likes to present itself to the public. Their star rider and team captain Sebastian Wilkes is standing in the front, his arms folded in front of his chest, watching one of the new teams that managed to get in on a wildcard – the recently formed Team Starbucks – take up position on the stage. In John’s opinion Wilkes is a privileged, spoiled brat who lets his team work their arses off for his benefit alone, much like the now infamous Lance Armstrong. Wilkes is fit and a good rider in all disciplines, yes, but sometimes John wonders whether he is getting help from illicit substances as Armstrong did. There is a difference between good and almost perfect.

Doping is a big topic nobody likes to talk about. Even now the press is skirting around it as they interview Team Starbucks with their international roster of mostly young, eager but fairly unknown riders. John approves of the strict doping controls in their sport even during training. Unlike other sports, in recent years cycling has become one of the most closely monitored – for good reason, given the scandals of the past. Sometimes, John resents the vilification of prominent cyclists while other sportsmen and women go blame free, despite rumours that these highly paid footballers and athletes are getting chemical or biological boosts from the same doctors as the cyclists, many of whom earn only meagre percentages of what a successful player in the FA or NBA would get. On the other hand John is realistic enough to know that the anti doping agencies are always a step behind the dopers, who are getting more and more sophisticated all the time. Some years ago it was EPO and blood-doping, then asthma drugs or steroids. Soon it will be genetic manipulation or bionic implants in the riders’ muscles, or some such shit. _But by then, I’ll be out. So better enjoy this circus one last time, and hope all are riding clean for a change_.

As he stands with his teammates watching the other teams parade on the stage, showing off their bikes and their jerseys, being introduced to the audience and the press with a few words about their career and their aspirations for this year’s Tour, John recalls that they’re still one man short. Only eight riders showed up at the brief meeting with their manager before they headed out to Trafalgar Square. The riders’ questions concerning the missing ninth cyclist were answered only evasively. “He’ll come,” Greg assured them repeatedly. But every time he said it, he sounded less convinced, and looked more harrowed and nervous, darting quick glances at his mobile and his watch.

John lets his eyes wander down the line, taking in his teammates. There’s manager Greg Lestrade, his silver hair a stark contrast to his deeply tanned face. Despite having turned fifty lately, he is still fit, cycles almost every day when he isn’t accompanying his riders in one of the team’s cars, yelling at them through the wireless. Greg used to be another man for the Spring Classics in his time, won some smaller stage races such as the Tour de Suisse as well. During one notable summer almost twenty years ago, he spent an entire week riding in the yellow jersey in the Tour de France, the first British rider to do so. John remembers that summer well, and the hours he spent obsessively watching the Tour on the small telly in his then-girlfriend’s living room. Seeing Greg Lestrade ride in yellow proved the final push for John to switch from mountain-biking to road-cycling, and to consider a career as a professional cycling career instead of continue doing what his parents would have preferred and become a doctor.

So here is Greg, looking tense and worried and trying to hide it. Down the line are Kit Hunter and his roommate Jonathan Dimmock, another youngster and a good helper in the mountains. Stephen Bainbridge, the team’s sprinter, and his roommate and sprint-helper Harry Lyons are there, both of them still curiosities in the peloton because of their racial background. Stephen is black and Harry Asian. Despite changes towards more diversity in cycling in recent years, it’s still predominantly a white sport, much more so than others. Team Speedy’s is one of the most diverse teams in this year’s Tour, John notices when he compares them with the other teams he has seen so far, but even they could do better still.

Next to Bainbridge and Lyons are allrounders Andrew Hopkins and Joshua Gregson who both have the potential of doing well in breakaways and even win a stage, and are invaluable as water carriers in the mountains, and as wind-breaks for Bainbridge on the flat stages. Gangly Philip Anderson, Team Speedy’s mountain goat, is standing next to John and looking around with a frown, shuffling his feet nervously. John knows what he is irritated about.

“We’re still a man short,” mutters Anderson, “unless I’ve missed someone.”

“You haven’t,” replied John. “I also see eight only, excluding Greg. Any idea who the ninth might be? Kit mentioned that Greg had signed on someone new, someone for GC, perhaps. Whoever he is, His Highness should deign to arrive soon, or else we’ll be forced to start without him.”

Anderson nods grimly. “Yes indeed. The nerve, eh? Not coming to the team meeting and taking his time showing up here. Either, it’s somebody really good, or he’s a complete and utter wanker. It must be someone from outside the team. I’ve asked all our boys, and none of them has been invited. Small said he was briefly considered as a back-up should the new bloke turn down the offer. Hope Lestrade knows what he’s doing. But as for your question, no idea who he might be. I wouldn’t even know who was still available. Those top riders without teams have already been snatched up by others, even Trevor is back, have you seen? Riding for that Italian/British Team, CS, apparently. But apart from that, most of the teams that were in the Tour last year have changed their rosters very little. I’m really curious about the wildcards, though. There’s this brand new team called Brook Consulting. Over there, the chaps in black with the white spider on the front. You may recognise some of their riders. Oh, they’re called on stage now.”

Shifting his attention back to the stage, John nods. There are some familiar faces indeed. Their captain and rider for GC, Jim Moriarty, has a bit of a reputation in the cycling world for his daring, sometimes irresponsible riding style. His number one helper, Sebastian Moran, is also a force to be reckoned with, especially in the mountains. Moriarty came third in last year’s Tour, and Moran fifth, a brilliant position for a helper and a surprise for the rest of the teams. Both riders profited from a successful breakaway in the Alps that brought up doping speculations once again (as every daring or extraordinary action in cycling does nowadays). Rumour has it that Moriarty and Moran had been unhappy with their former team and had therefore terminated their contracts mid-season. Neither rode in the Vuelta or any of the smaller races following the Tour which usually give the riders a chance to actually earn some good money. Moriarty and Moran must have used that time to find a new sponsor and shop around for riders to join their new team. John doesn’t know much about the sponsor. Some IT company, apparently, and a successful one, too. Their bikes are the latest models by a very sought after manufacturer. None of the other riders of this team is known for having aspirations apart from a stage win should the opportunity for one present itself. They have all been signed up to help Moriarty who must be hungry indeed to win this year’s Tour, to pay back Wilkes for snatching victory from him during the last time trial of last year’s race. Sholto would have been on his list of chief targets to eliminate, too, but he is out of the picture now.

“They look a bit scary in their black outfits, don’t they,” muses Anderson next to John.

“Yeah, they do. Hope Moran won’t pull a stunt like last year again. He almost caused a crash on the descent from the Col de la Madeleine because he was riding so dangerously.”

“Yes, tell me about it. Remember, I was there,” growls Anderson. “Right behind him, in fact. He almost hit me, the wanker, when he swerved like a madman. There wasn’t even anything on the road to swerve for. And listen to him talk. He’s mental, that’s what he is. So’s Moriarty, by the way, although he can conceal it better. Moran is a like a loose canon. He shouldn’t be allowed to race at all.”

John nods, watching Team Brook Consulting being interviewed by the press. Moran doesn’t say much, just grunts into the microphone looking grim with his arms folded in front of his chest, probably to manifest his reputation as cycling’s current bad boy. Apparently, and for reasons beyond John’s comprehension, this has earned him an avid following among both men and women. There are several fan clubs devoted to him, and, if what Soo Lin, one of the mechanics at Team Speedy’s and the most internet-savvy of them all, says is true, there is some heavy ‘shipping’ going on online. People are seeing Moran and Moriarty as a potential couple, calling them ‘MorMor’ on social media and making videos or writing fanfiction. John has no idea whether there is any truth to it. The two certainly appreciate the publicity, are even feeding into the rumours with how they present themselves, but even they are careful not to encourage suspicion too much. As in most professional sports, homosexuality is still a red flag in cycling. John doesn’t know a single rider who is out, and only very few closeted ones.

He watches Moriarty as he charms his way through the interviews, flirting with basically everybody, posing for the press and the onlookers, his affability helped along by his Irish lilt and the spark of mischief in his dark eyes. No wonder the cameras love him. He is handsome with a bit of an edge to him, and stylish to boot. Also, he seems extremely confident that he’ll manage to come first this year, speaks of ‘special’ training. He rode every stage in preparation and memorised their difficulties, he claims. This year, he says, is going to be his year. John has to concede him a point. He seems in extraordinarily good shape indeed.

Captivated by Moriarty’s little speech, he at first doesn’t notice when Anderson nudges his shoulder. “Watson, look over there,” he hisses excitedly.

“What? Where?”

“Over there,” nods Anderson. John follows his line of sight. A man wearing the Team Speedy’s outfit is making his way towards them, wheeling his bike. John narrows his eyes. He looks familiar, although John can’t think of a name right now. The fact the newcomer is dressed in the official outfit down to his gloves rules out that he is a fan. The new kit isn’t available to buy yet.

“Guess that’s our ninth teammate, then,” shrugs John.

“Do you know _who_ that is?” Anderson is staring at the newcomer with rapt fascination and a good measure of disbelief.

“I ... bloody hell, that’s Sherlock Holmes, isn’t it?” breathes John in astonishment.

Anderson nods with his mouth open, looking stunned. “So the rumours were true, after all.”

“What rumours?” John hasn’t heard anything, but then he isn’t very active on social media. And he avoids the tabloids.

“That he’s back from ... wherever he was these past years,” mutters Anderson. “Some folks saw him train in the Alps and posted pictures online. Few believed that it was actually him. He wore helmet and sunglasses, after all, and nondescript clothes, so the pictures they posted weren’t clear. But now I believe it must have been him indeed. He looks as if he’s done some work.”

Together, they watch the man approach their group, which is going to be next on stage. _Sherlock Holmes,_ thinks John, _never thought I’d see the day he’d ride a professional race again._ He searches his memory for the last Tour Holmes participated in. _His only Tour,_ John corrects himself. 2007. A memorable year. He himself did well in that Tour, winning a stage and helping his then team captain, renowned sprinter Bill Murray, to an overall win of the points classification. Holmes started out as the new _Wunderkind_ in the peloton. He had burst onto the stage the previous year, a promising young time trialist. He’d won the world cup and about every time trial race there was. He’d won the two individual time trials in the 2007 Tour and lead his team to win the team time trial. People said that not since five times Tour winner Jacques Anquetil – Monsieur Chrono, nicknamed for his highly stylised pace and rhythm – had a rider been this efficient on a bicycle. Holmes had been like a machine, precise, analytical, ruthless and fast, and yet an absolute joy to watch. He had been termed the rider with the most aesthetic style. Not that he had cared. John recalls that he had been reluctant to agree to interviews, had come across as taciturn or downright rude, eviscerating the reporters with shrewd observations about themselves or their employers. Despite the success he’d achieved for his team – John can’t recall which one, only that they’d ridden in blue jerseys – Sherlock had been loathed among the other riders. ‘Freak’, most had called him. ‘ _The_ Freak’. Even when he had won the White Jersey for the best young rider, a more than respectable fourth place in the overall classification which took everybody by complete surprise, the animosity hadn’t abated. On the contrary, in some circles of the peloton, it had even increased. John still wonders whether this contributed to what had happened next. Every newspaper must have run the story back then: Sherlock Holmes’ fall from grace. Doping, drugs ... nobody seemed to know for sure, but everybody of course had an opinion. Holmes had never ridden a professional race again after that, had disappeared. Even though they’d never actually exchanged a word during their one Tour de France together, now and again over the years John wondered what had happened to Sherlock Holmes, who’d once claimed in one of his rare interviews that he cycled because he liked it, because it “stopped all the noise in his head and helped him think”. This remark had struck a chord with John back then, he’d sympathised deeply with the idea, because most of the time, John feels exactly the same.

And now here he is: Sherlock Holmes in all his glory. He looks different than John remembers. Back in 2007 he was a gangly kid with a freckly tan, too large hands and feet, and a mop of dark curls that barely seemed to fit under his helmet. Now he looks older. _Well,_ John reasoned, _obviously, he is. He must be in his mid-thirties now. That’s bloody old for a comeback attempt. Most riders retire at that age – the sensible ones, at least, not the crazy old geezers like me._ The formerly scrawny frame has filled out a bit, despite Holmes still being on the slender side, even for a cyclist. Judging from the way he moves, Holmes feels more at home in his body now. The freckles are still there. With skin as naturally pale as his, he’d have to be careful in the sun. John himself tans well and doesn’t easily get burned under a good layer of sunscreen, but Holmes seems to be one of those riders who’ll get roasted during long stages despite being slathered in sunblock. Still, Holmes must have spent quite a lot of time in the sun lately, probably during his training sessions. The jersey and cycling shorts he wore then were longer than those of his new team, because tan lines are showing on his upper arms and his thighs. The curls are still there, a little more tamed now. He is wearing sunglasses that accentuate his high cheekbones and hide his eyes, making it hard to read his expression – which, John thinks, is the point.

Moriarty’s team is marching off the stage now. The audience is clapping and cheering. Anthea Smith, Team Speedy’s PR person, ushers Greg and his men up the stairs while their mechanics and other helpers move their new bicycles onto the stage. Holmes has reached them now, standing in line behind John with this bike, which is his time trial machine with its particular aerobars and rear disc wheel. Holmes is surprisingly tall, John notices, almost as tall as Anderson, but not as lean so as to look like a beanstalk. _Wonder why he didn’t arrive with the rest of us,_ John muses, telling himself not to stare too obviously. Cameras are flashing into his face. Most, he is sure, are pointed at Sherlock Holmes, back from obscurity.

“I was delayed because of London traffic,” a deep voice says next to John. “Unlike the rest of you, I checked tomorrow’s track one last time now that the barriers are in place.”

John turns to him and frowns. Holmes isn’t looking at him, but it must have been him speaking. John recalls that he has this deep voice, unexpected in a man with a haircut like a public school boy. “How—?” he begins, but is interrupted by the presenter.

“And here, back for their sixth Tour de France, now with co-sponsor Sussex Honey on board, is Team Speedy’s. They were last year’s winner of the team classification while one of their riders, James Sholto, came second overall, ceding victory to Sebastian Wilkes of Shad Sanderson – and wasn’t that a narrow second place? Wilkes had less than a minute on Sholto. Unfortunately, due to a bad crash in the Dauphiné Liberé, Team Speedy’s/Sussex Honey will be short of their captain and most obvious candidate to compete for the yellow jersey in Paris. However, rest assured that manager and chief coach Gregory Lestrade has a new ace up his sleeve – which, recalling the unusual rosters he presented us with in previous years, shouldn’t be a surprise. Greg’s got a hand for building team spirit and bringing out the best in his men, and also for picking unusual riders. But let’s hear it from the man himself. Tell us about your men, Greg.”

The host hands the microphone over to Lestrade. John hears a small scoff next to him.

“What a load of preposterous babble,” mutters Holmes as he stands stiffly holding his bike and exuding hostility like a vapour – not necessarily towards John or the rest of his teammates, none of whom he has greeted yet, but towards the press. John is sure that from behind his sunglasses, Holmes is scowling at the audience aiming their mobile phones and tablets at the stage, and at the host of reporters with their cameras. He looks as if he’d prefer to be anywhere but on this stage. John sympathises strongly with that. He feels almost tempted to clasp the other man’s shoulder reassuringly.

“Thank you for having us back this year,” Lestrade addresses the assembly. He looks more at ease now than in the days leading up to the Tour, probably because he has spotted Sherlock and can rest assured that his team is complete at last. “As has been mentioned, we’ve had some ups and downs this season. James’ crash was a shock to all of us, not just because we won’t have him with us on this Tour, but also because the circumstances of his accident were quite dramatic, and the outcome severe. He is doing better now, and doubtlessly will be rooting for the team, but it’s hard for all of us. But, as you can see, we have riders for all eventualities: Philip Anderson for the polka dot jersey, Stephen Bainbridge for the green, Kit Hunter for the white, and perhaps, hopefully, we’ll again manage to get the entire team up on the podium in the team classification. ”

“Who’s your new team captain, Monsieur Lestrade?” asks one of the reporters, sporting a heavy French accent. John believes she’s writing for _L’Equippe._ “Do you also have a rider for the _maillot jaune?_ ”

Lestrade looks down the line and points at John. “We don’t really have a man for the GC this year, but given that John Watson is our steadiest and most experienced rider, we decided to make him captain. So he’ll be the one to make decisions out there, although as usual, we’d like to keep those a team effort as well. Nobody manages to win the Tour on his own. It’s always a team thing, down to the riders who battle the wind on the flats or stuff their jerseys full of water bottles to hand out to their teammates. We’re all in this together, and John Watson is a team player par excellence. Our team, and indeed the Tour de France, wouldn’t be the same without him.”

Cameras are flashing in John’s face, which has become flushed and warm from Lestrade’s heartfelt praise. A microphone is passed to him by one of the aides. Turning his head upwards, John can see a pixelated version of himself blown up on the huge screens, accompanied by some text stating his date of birth and the year he went pro, the previous teams he rode for, and some of his greatest successes. The host repeats them to the audience while brief videos show his win at Paris-Roubaix, and a stage win at a previous Tour de France.

“John Watson is the second oldest rider in this year’s peloton, a true veteran of the Tour.”

Turning to John, he asks, “What made you want to come back another year, John? Most riders your age have long retired. I’ve heard that Ivan Basso has bought a blueberry farm in Italy, and who knows if Jens Voigt has opened that café he always talked about.”

John clears his throat and grins at the audience. “Well, hearing about those two perhaps I should reconsider. Hanging out in a café or looking after blueberry bushes sounds lovely, given my alternative for the next three weeks. But jokes aside, I for one feel good this year. True, with each Tour, my respect for the mountain stages increases. I hope to be of some aid to my teammates there, help Philip here to win a stage or more, and perhaps the polka dot jersey in Paris. I’m grateful that Team Speedy’s/Sussex Honey have invited me for another Tour. It’s an honour. They’re a brilliant team with lots of young riders who hopefully are glad to have an old geezer like me around to ask for advice now and again, a shoulder to cry on, and a sympathetic ear should things become too tough and they need someone to vent to. Listen, everybody knows they’re not keeping me around because I could potentially win this insanity. Even back when I was young and actually somewhat fast I stood no chance there. But if my teammates want to know how to successfully initiate and survive in a breakaway, or how to ride _grupetto_ on a mountain stage and make it across the finish line just inside the time limit to prevent being picked up by the broom wagon, I’m their man. I also know all the good bars and restaurants along the route,” he finishes with a wink at the audience, who cheers.

“Is it true that you consider this team your family?” another reporter wants to know.

John smiles. “Yes, it’s true. They tend to grow on you over the years.”

“This is your 16th Tour de France, right? Tell us what in your opinion has changed since you started out.”

John thinks for a moment, before explaining about doping and the rise of the e-bike, but also stressing that the actual cycling has remained pretty much the same. “Look at it this way, back in the early days of the Tour, they had stages of 500 kilometres and more. They had to carry all their own repair equipment, the roads weren’t even asphalted in some parts. They stopped for breaks at local inns. When I started out as a young professional, you still had these great names who then fell from grace because they’d used illicit means to achieve their successes. I don’t want to excuse doping, far from it. But retrospectively knowing what they did doesn’t make their achievements anything less extraordinary. Look at people like Tyler Hamilton who rode half the Tour with a broken collarbone. No amount of EPO or chemical aid can help with that. You have people riding with injuries which in every other sport would see them in hospital. Cycling is bloody hard, despite improvements in technology – lighter bikes, better gear, all that – and it’s bloody brilliant at the same time. And this hasn’t changed in the almost two decades I’ve been part of this circus. Despite the hardship, I love it here, and I’m going to miss it.”

“Does that mean we might see you back again next season after all?”

John laughs. “First I have to survive this race. Ask me again in Paris.”

More laughs and cheers from the audience. John knows that he is fairly popular, is regarded as a sympathetic, down-to-earth rider.

“Are you going for the red number again, John?” the presenter enquires. John grins at him, “What a question. Of course. It’s my number, isn’t it? Hope they’ve already printed my name on it.”

“That’s what your fans want to hear,” says the reporter, pointing to a group of women in the audience who are waving one of last year’s Team Speedy’s jerseys with a red number on its back, as well as a poster featuring a photo of John flipping the bird at someone while grinning madly.” John rolls his eyes when he recognises his sister among them.

“Thank you, John. One last question, given your obvious aspirations of defending your title of ‘most combative rider’ and ‘king of the breakaway’, tell us a little more about your teammates, and who of them you’d take with you in a breakaway.”

“All of them, obviously. Stephen and Harry are brilliant sprinters, they could win all the intermediate sprints on a stage while riding in a breakaway. Philip could do the same for the mountain classification on a hilly stage. Kit is a good allrounder and being so young, he’s hot and eager for a stage win, same as Josh and Jonathan. And as for our newest teammate, Hol— Sherlock, I recall that he’s an excellent time trialist. They always fare well in breakaways, since they’re used to riding alone in the wind for long stretches. Sherlock is our joker, I’d say. It’s good to have him on our team as well.”

Up on the screen, John’s giant image is replaced by that of Holmes, looking somewhat stunned with all the attention suddenly shifting to him. He stiffens visibly when prompted by the presenter, John hands the microphone over to him. Because of the sunglasses, John finds it difficult to read his expression, and wonders whether his words annoyed or irritated Holmes. They haven’t even exchanged a greeting yet, nor have they been properly introduced.

“Now here’s perhaps the biggest surprise of the 2018 Tour de France,” says the host. “Sherlock Holmes, doubtlessly the defining rider of the 2007 Tour, when he won two individual time trials, the team time trial, the white jersey of the best young rider, and came fourth overall, now making a come back with Team Speedy’s/Sussex Honey more than ten years after he quit professional cycling. Sherlock, what made you return after so many years?”

Expectant silence reigns the audience when all eyes and cameras shift to Holmes. He glares at them through his sunglasses, standing stiff and still. John notices how the hand holding the bike is trembling slightly because Holmes seems to be grasping it with all his might. Eventually, he lifts the mic. “I was bored,” he says.

Everybody stares at him, undecided whether this was a joke or not. There’s some scattered laughter in the audience. Holmes doesn’t elaborate, lowers the mic again, standing stiffly, his shoulders tense. John is sure that if teleportation had been invented and functioning, Holmes would be using it now to transport himself (and his bike) to a place far away where there’s peace and quiet. John pities him. This kind of public attention and scrutiny can be taxing even for the most popular rider, but for somebody like Holmes who has deliberately stayed out of the spotlight for so long ... John doesn’t even want to know what Twitter, Facebook and the rest of the social media sites have to say about him, nor does he want to read tomorrow’s _Sun_ or, worse, _Daily Mail._

Having recovered from Holmes’ blunt, almost hostile reply with a nervous laugh, the presenter turns to Lestrade. “Greg, tell us what made you sign up Sherlock Holmes at such short notice. A few days ago when I checked the rosters in preparation for today, I recall that the position was still marked as vacant – highly unusual this close to the Tour.”

Lestrade rubs the back of his neck. “Well, with James Sholto out, we needed someone who’d do well in the time trials and would fit in with the team. Those riders of our own not selected for the Tour were already booked for other races or unavailable due to injuries. I didn’t even know that Sherlock was back on the market again, so to say, until a mutual acquaintance pointed out his availability. We met, discussed things, he was interested in joining. It took a while to sort out logistics and stuff, but here he is, and I’m excited that he’s with us.”

“Aren’t you taking a huge risk to take on board a cyclist who’s not ridden any professional race in over a decade?” asks a German reporter, judging by the accent. “And who’s not even had the chance to train much with his teammates?”

Lestrade fixes the man with a beady glance. “Listen, putting together a team is always a risk. Riding the fucking Tour de France is a risk. You never know what’s gonna happen. I have full confidence in Sherlock Holmes and the rest of the team. They’re professionals, all of them, and great riders. Oh, and if any of you press folks consider digging up old shit about why Sherlock hasn’t been around in professional cycling for so long, take a good hard look in the mirror before that – yeah, and _The Mirror,_ too, for good measure. It was mostly you people who made him quit cycling with all your made-up allegations of doping and what not. I for one am glad that finally, he is back where he belongs, riding with a good team that supports him. Wait until you’ve seen him ride tomorrow, yeah, before you crucify him and us. That’s all I have to say about the matter right now.”

Stunned silence again. Lestrade’s words have been unexpectedly sharp. Observing the reporters, John sees how some of them look a little contrite indeed, while the younger ones are already on their phones and tablets searching the internet for information about Sherlock Holmes. John looks at him. He has relaxed a little, and is watching Lestrade with a thoughtful expression, as if trying to decide whether Greg’s words were genuine. Feeling he has to be supportive, John leans closer to Holmes.

“Welcome to the team,” he says quietly. Holmes stirs and shifts his attention to John, scrutinising him. Eventually, he jerks up his chin and says stiffly, “Thank you,” followed by, “your saddle is too low.”

John frowns at him. “What?”

“The saddle of your time trialling bike. It’s too low. The position puts too much stress on your knees, thus aggravating your old injury and causing premature fatigue. Two centimetres should do the trick. You should consider raising the aerobars by that amount as well, so as not to trouble your shoulder, although for tomorrow’s short prologue it should be fine as it is.”

John stares at him. “How—?”

He is again interrupted by the host, who now begins to walk down the line to briefly interview the other riders. As expected, Stephen Bainbridge and Kit Hunter garner the most attention. Kit is his hyperactive yet engrossing self. The audience loves him. John reckons he’s going to have his own online fan club by the end of the first week. Stephen really knows how to pose and use his good looks to great effect, playing with the cameras like a fashion model (which in fact he is, having just signed a profitable contract with some sports apparel company). Anderson seems irritated by Holmes’ presence still, and answers the questions poised for him only curtly, without detailing his strategy for stage wins in the high mountains or his aspirations for the polka dot jersey. The presentation wraps up with a few words about their new bikes and a small message from their sponsor. Martha Hudson joins Lestrade and the others on stage and expresses her pride about being able to support another cycling team this year. She also sends greetings and good wishes on behalf of the co-sponsor, the CEO of which, a woman going by the name of Janine Hawkins John has never heard of, sends a short video message that is broadcast on the screens.

Then they are ushered off the stage to make room for the last team of the presentation, Team Shad Sanderson. Down in the wings, Holmes is immediately surrounded by the rest of Team Speedy’s and forced to shake hands and endure claps of the shoulder from the riders. Lestrade steps over to him and nods at him gravely. “Nice of you to show up in the nick of time, Sherlock.”

“I was preparing for tomorrow,” Holmes replies defensively, holding his bike in front of him like a shield.

“That’s great, but I expect you to be present at team meetings in the future, okay. Would have been nice for your teammates to be able to say hello before the presentation, yeah?” He nods towards the bike. “Everything all right with it?”

John inclines his head. “Some minor modifications will be required, but yes.” He gazes at each of his teammates in turn and lets out a long breath. “Thank you for having me,” he says at length, sounding as if it’s costing him greatly to admit this. “And for giving me this chance. I do appreciate it, even though it might not look like it.”

Lestrade claps his shoulder. “Your reply to that reporter will be all over the papers tomorrow. ‘I was bored’, bloody hell.”

Holmes looks affronted. “I only stated a fact,” he returns irritably.

“And he’s pulling your leg,” intervenes John, grinning at him. “He tends to do that with all of us, so you better learn to live with it.”

Holmes sniffs haughtily. “Oh, I see. We’re all going to have so much fun,” he says acidly.

“That depends entirely on you, mate,” says Stephen Bainbridge, winking at Holmes. “Quiet now, folks. Wilkes is about to talk. Did you know he’s calling himself ‘The Silver Blaze’? Stupid wanker. Can’t wait to hear him gush about he’s going to totally win this Tour as well because the competition is a bunch of sorry losers, the arrogant twat.”

The team turns to the stage to watch. Next to him, John hears a quiet, “Well, we’ll see about that,” uttered in a deep baritone. Goosebumps rise on his arms. He isn’t sure whether they’re caused by the words or the voice or both. What he knows, however, is that Holmes hasn’t just joined the team to do well in the odd time trial. He recognises the determination, the drive. Here is someone out for blood. _Perhaps,_ John muses, _we have a rider to aim for GC in our ranks after all._

_  
_

**– <o>–**

 

Back at the hotel, Greg invites everybody to meet in one of the seminar rooms before dinner. The rest of the team, meaning the other coaches, the technicians, therapists, doctors and of course their sponsor are going to be there as well. The riders retire to their rooms to change out of their cycling gear into more comfortable clothes. John is slightly surprised to find that the other bed in his room still hasn’t been claimed. Perhaps he’s going to be without a roommate after all this year, at least in this hotel. Well, there could be worse things, he reasons.

He is standing at the window buttoning his shirt when there’s a bang at the door, followed by a curse. He turns as the door flies open, kicked by a hard cycling shoe. Holmes is standing outside, two bags over one shoulder and his time trial bike on the other. He has shoved his sunglasses into his messy curls. His pale eyes are burning with anger, as if the door has personally insulted him.

“Stop standing there gaping and help me with my bags,” he barks towards John, eschewing a greeting. “These elevators are too small for the bike, meaning I had to use the stairs. Lots of them.”

“Why did you bring your bike up here anyway?” asks John incredulously, still staring at the slightly dishevelled appearance in the door.

“To prepare it for tomorrow, obviously,” returns Holmes, carefully lowering the bike to the floor.

“We do have technicians for that, you know. Good ones, too.”

“I prefer to look after my gear myself. I wasn’t allowed to bring my own bicycle because of some sponsor thing, and will have to make do with this model. So the least I can do it modify it to my requirements.”

John sighs and shrugs. “Whatever. As long as my bed stays free and I can access the bathroom when I need it. Anything else I should know?”

“About what?”

“You.” John gestures between them. “Roommates and all that.”

Holmes frowns for a moment as if the concept is utterly alien to him. “Oh.” He dumps his bags on the floor, gazes at John defiantly. “I don’t want or need idle chatter. Sometimes, I don’t talk for extended periods of time and require to be left in peace then. I don’t care what’s on the television, so if you want to lay claim to the remote, help yourself. I didn’t expect to have to share a room. Normally, I don’t. Therefore, I’m not familiar with the rules of cohabitation. Don’t expect me to be a model roommate. As you can see, I may bring my bike to my room for modifications. I play the violin from time to time, when I need to think.”

“The violin?” John recognises an oblong case peeking out of one of the bags. “You’re bringing a violin to the Tour de France?”

“Yes. If that’s a problem for you, you can always share with Anderson. I heard he has a spare bed.”

“Yes, because he snores like a hibernating bear. Do you snore?”

Holmes frowns briefly. His arrogant, confident demeanour changes slightly. “I don’t know,” he says thoughtfully, as if considering the question for the first time.

John snorts. “What? Never shared a room – or a bed – in your life to get feedback on that?”

Pale eyes narrow as they take him in. It could be a trick of the light or due to the exertion of having lugged his bike and bloody violin up the stairs, but it seems to John as if Holmes’ cheeks have acquired a faint flush. But his voice is curt when he replies, “No. As I mentioned before. I don’t share rooms.”

“Well, mate, now you do, because I’m not sleeping with Anderson. You can have this bed.”

Holmes scoffs, and kicks his bags over to the single. “Fine.”

John watches him, remembers how tense and unhappy he seemed at the presentation, imagines the pressure the man must be feeling, returning to this craziness after so many years. _Be civil,_ he reminds himself. _You’re going to be roommates for the two nights we’re staying in London at least, likely more. He’s a proper arse, but you wouldn’t be any better were you in his situation.  
_

He lets out a long breath. “Listen, sorry for snapping at you—”

“I don’t need your pity,” Holmes interrupts him. “I’m not a charity case or a fledgling rider for you to take under your wing, John Watson, veteran of the Tour de France. I know what I’m doing.”

“Yeah, sure. But you could be a bit nicer about it,” John bites back. “We’re a team here.”

“Oh yes, right. I forgot. Let’s all stand in a circle and hold hands to build team spirit. Perhaps engage in a bit of survival training. Jump in an icy lake or something.”

John feels anger rise in him. “You know what, forget it. Do your thing. It’s all fine. How about we draw a demarcation line through the room so that we each know our place exactly.”

“That’d be ridiculous,” Holmes states, his brow furrowed in thought.

“Yes. Wonder what gave me the idea,” snaps John.

They stare at each other across the beds. John realises he’s puffed out his chest to make himself taller and more impressive. Holmes has at least half a head on him in terms of height, not counting the fluffy hair and the fact he is still wearing his cycling shoes which add extra height. Holmes’ gaze is intense. John has the distinct feeling of being X-rayed. Sweat begins to gather in his nape.

Their little staring contest is interrupted by Holmes beginning to chuckle softly and breaking the connection. John breathes again and likewise deflates slightly. Holmes shrugs.

“A line would ruin the carpet and upset the careful decor of the room,” he says airily, looking around the posh interior.

John takes his words for a peace offering. “True. It would mess up these ... Edwardian furnishings somewhat badly.”

“Art Deco.”

“What?”

“The style, it’s Art Deco, not Edwardian. The Edwardian rooms face towards the river, not the Strand.”

“Oh, so you’re an art expert, too, aren’t you?”

“I have a broad range of interests, and specialist knowledge associated with them. Like you. Medicine, particularly the history of it, in combination with archaeological forensics. Your current obsession are the battlefields of the Somme because of a family connection, and Autochrome photographs of the First World War. Obscure French football clubs, too, but you don’t follow the World Cup because you think they’re all overpaid wimps. You’re interested in fantasy as well as historical literature. Quite the eclectic combination. Are you actually considering to take up training as a doctor once you’re done with cycling? Interesting, and quite bold, given your advanced age.”

“Oi,” interrupts John, about to remind Holmes that he can’t be much younger than John, but the other just carries on talking, all the while watching John as if he’s a particularly fascinating specimen under a microscope.

“Ah, but you do have a good foundation, having studied medicine before you turned pro, and continued your studies when shoulder and knee injuries forced you to convalesce for longer periods. I quite agree, rehabilitation facilities can be utterly boring, hence the need to occupy oneself. Your collarbone was a difficult and quite serious fracture. You retained scarring in your shoulder because you fell so unluckily that something pierced it. Not a part of your bicycle. Somebody else’s, I’d say, since you were obviously involved in a major crash with more than one rider. Your shoulder still troubles you, particularly in cold, humid weather. Hence my suggestion to raise the aerobars on your time trial bike. It’d take strain off your shoulder, and if you raise the saddle at the same time, it’d help your knee and you’d still retain the best aerodynamic position you could possibly have with your stature and the geometry of these Simplon bikes.”

John becomes aware that he has been staring at Holmes with his mouth open. He shuts it with a soft snap. Holmes gives him a little smile and picks up the larger of his bags, lifting it onto the bed.

“You read up on me,” says John. “Or talked to Greg.”

“Who?”

“Lestrade. Our coach.”

“Nope.”

“How else how could you possibly know all that? The stuff about the Somme, and the Autochromes? I haven’t talked about that to anybody.”

Holmes lifts his head from where he has been rummaging in his bag, his violin case in hand. “I didn’t _know_ , I saw,” he says simply, and continues to unpack.

John steps closer, intrigued and alarmed in equal measure. “You saw? What did you see?”

Holmes heaves a deep breath, even rolls his eyes. John feels like an idiot. “The books on your bedside table, for one. One about Albert Kahn, one of the pioneers of Autochrome photography, a copy of _Lamentation_ by C. J. Samson which is the most recent book in his series about a lawyer in Tudor England and indicates that you have read the previous novels as well, and _Tolkien and the Great War_ , one of the best biographies of the author to date, detailing not only the development of his legendarium, but also his time as an officer at the Somme, thus indicating that you are a fan of his fantasy books and familiar with them, and interested in the First World War as well. This particular battle seems to be important for your family because you’re wearing a good luck charm round your neck – cyclists tend to be ridiculously superstitious, don’t they? The charm, if I saw it correctly before you buttoned up your shirt, is a piece of shrapnel, possibly inscribed and wrought into jewellery, as was common amongst soldiers serving in the trenches of the First World War. There is a medical journal in your bag, specialist literature, not widely available to laymen. I would say you were given this copy by the team’s physician, Doctor Sawyer, with whom you entertain friendly relations, probably because you’ve known each other from before you went pro – balance of probability says you met at college or university, and at one time were more than friends.”

“School,” says John, his mouth dry. The man, apart from being utterly arrogant and rude, is also utterly fascinating. “We were at school together, until she moved away. We met again on this team.”

Holmes sighs. “There’s always something. How well did I fare with the rest?”

John shakes his head in awe. “The rest was spot on. It was ...,” he begins to laugh, running a hand through his hair. Holmes is watching him warily. “It was amazing. Brilliant. Quite extraordinary.”

Another hint of colour touches Holmes’ cheeks, and this time John is certain it has nothing to do with exertion. “That’s not what people normally say,” ventures Holmes at length, watching John with a cautious expression as if gauging his sincerity.

“What do people normally say?” John wants to know, although somehow, he can guess.

Holmes sniffs with disdain. “Piss off.” Even though he tries to look unaffected, John thinks he recognises the impression for a carefully rehearsed one.

John grins at him, hoping to lighten the mood. “Really can’t imagine why.”

Holmes rolls his eyes. “Yes, you can. You think I’m an arsehole like everybody else.”

“Wrong. I think you’re a bit of a prickly git, yes, but a brilliant one. I hate to admit it, but I fear you’re even right about my bike. I’m going to check with Molly later. By the way, I’m John.”

He holds out his hand to Holmes, who looks at it with an expression that deals John’s heart a tiny stab. There’s suspicion in it, and disbelief. _What kind of life has this man led recently that he tries to keep everybody at arm’s length?_ he asks himself. _What kind of bloke – and pro cyclist at that – has never shared a room before to get told whether he snores or not – and following that thought, hasn’t the man had any partners he spent a night with, ever?_

A large hand engulfs his own. The handshake is warm and dry and quite strong. “Sherlock,” rumbles the baritone.

John nods, squeezes the hand once more for good measure and releases it. “You asked for rules of cohabitation.”

“I didn’t ask for them, I pointed out that I am mostly unaware of them.”

“Smartarse,” quips John. Sherlock shrugs, the corners of his mouth twitching in a faint smile. Apparently, the git is taking it as a compliment.

“Right, rules,” says John. “No violin play when I’m trying to sleep. I think we can dispense with the demarcation line through the room as long as there are two beds. When there’s only one, which is absolutely possible, particularly in the smaller hotels we’ll be staying at, we’ll discuss the blanket situation once we’re there. If it’s very warm and there’s no air-con, we won’t be needing any. When you shave your legs and ... stuff, rinse the shower after, okay. I’m not squeamish, but I’ve had roommates who left the bathroom looking like a battlefield. I don’t care about who decides what’s on the telly. For me it’s mostly just background noise to unwind after a hard stage, and since most of it will be in French, anyway, I don’t really give a shit. And you’re right about the World Cup. I don’t really follow the footy. Greg does, and some of the others, so if anything good happens to England, we’ll know. I’d like to watch the news now and again, though. Three weeks is a long time, and it’s good to keep in touch with what else is happening in the world while we’re in France – although most of it is bound to be depressing, with Brexit and Trump and all that shit. Can’t think of anything else at the moment, to be honest. I’m sure it’ll be fine. Once we’ve survived the cobblestones in Flanders we’ll be happy to just have beds to collapse onto, knowing there’s worse to come.”

Holmes – Sherlock – nods. “I experimented with different bicycles, tyre profiles and air pressure on the _pavés_ when I trained for that stage.”

“Yes, so did we. Personally, I quite like the cobblestones, despite them being hell for my shoulder. But many of the light-weight mountain specialists really fear them. Have you ever ridden Paris-Roubaix or the Ronde van Vlaanderen?”

“No. Not really my specialty, the Spring Classics.”

“Don’t worry, we’ll pull you along.”

Sherlock cocks his head. “Because we’re a team?”

“Yes, mate. And now we’ll better get ready for the meeting, or Greg will have our heads. If you think you can endure being parted from your beloved bicycle for so long.”

He winks at Sherlock to show him that he’s joking. The other looks slightly affronted for a moment, but then his face does the almost-grin again, which to John looks as if he’s not sure whether he’s allowed to show mirth in the company of others. _Poor chap,_ thinks John. Sherlock insisted he doesn’t want pity. John still isn’t quite sure what to make of him, other that he’s absolutely unique and really, really interesting. _Not entirely bad looking, either, in an odd and slightly alien way._ And where has this come from? John tries to quench the thought as quickly as it came up. Only trouble lies that way, and worse.

 

**– <o>–**

 

The meeting goes well. Everybody seems motivated and ready to start the Tour. Introductions are made, and while Sherlock remains silent most of the time, he keeps himself in check when he does talk and doesn’t spout observations about his teammates or the crew. Mrs. Hudson is there. John watches her welcome Sherlock as warmly as the other riders of the team. To his surprise, Sherlock hugs her briefly when she greets him. Apparently they know each other, which may explain Sherlock’s last minute addition to the team.

“We’re going to inspect the route one more time tomorrow morning,” Lestrade tells the riders. “The starting order isn’t very fortunate for us. Sherlock starts quite late, though, Jonathan before him. Kit’s quite early. They put Wilkes, Moriarty and Ricoletti last, apparently hoping for some heated competition to gain yellow on the first day. The first two are obvious contenders for GC and good time trialists – Wilkes a little better than Moriarty, although he was surprisingly good in the Dauphiné. Ricoletti is clearly hoping for the mountains, but he’s improved as a time trialist as well. The real forces to the reckoned with tomorrow, however, are time trial specialists like van Coon, the two Netflix chaps, and of course Victor Trevor. They’re all hoping for stage wins here and during the individual time trials later on, depending how well they survive the mountains.”

From the corner of his eye, John sees Sherlock sit up straighter. Doubtlessly, he knows his own competition well, has probably studied all his opponents carefully. _Or he’s simply looked at them and deduced their life stories,_ he thinks.

“Anyway,” goes on Lestrade, “despite the less than perfect starting order, I think we have a good chance of a brilliant start of this year’s Tour. Ride safely, chaps, and enjoy the Prologue. It’s not every year we start in our hometown. The crowds are going to be crazy tomorrow.”

 

**– <o>–**

 

Dinner is a lively affair. Team Speedy’s is not the only one accommodated at the hotel, and there is a happy mingling of riders and crew. John catches up with a few of his old teammates who are now riding for different employers. He ends up at the bar with most of his new ones (apart from Sherlock, Gregson and Dimmock), three German riders from Team Selters, and a bunch of Dutch, Belgians and Scandinavians from various teams. Even though nobody drinks any alcohol, the atmosphere soon turns jovial and rather silly when old stories are shared and new gossip is exchanged. John feels buoyed by the high spirits. This is why he loves his life as a professional cyclist, and the Tour de France in particular. The atmosphere is special, and even though there is competition among the teams and riders, knowing that all of them are in the same situation, expectant of the hardships ahead, there’s also understanding.

Much later than intended, John makes his way to his room. Even though he has a key-card, he knocks. A grunt from inside indicates that Sherlock is in. John finds him sitting on the floor in front of his partially disassembled bike, which he has turned onto saddle and handlebars. He is fiddling with the chain, his hands smeared with grease. John casts a doubtful eye at the carpet. So far, it seems to have survived without stains – something that can’t be said about Sherlock’s face. At one point, he must have run a hand through his hair. Grease marks are showing on his forehead, and his hair is more tousled than before. He looks wild and a bit unhinged with his intense expression, his brows knit in concentration as he leans in to closely inspect the derailleur. _Wild, yes, but also strangely adorable._

John watches him for a moment, shaking his head, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “I’m turning in. You gonna take long there?”

“Depends,” comes the curt reply.

“On what?”

“On how quickly I can repair this.”

“Not tired, then?”

“Nope.”

John sighs, grabs a t-shirt from his bag and heads for the ensuite. When he emerges a while later ready for bed, Sherlock has reassembled the bike and is checking the gears while holding it up at the saddle so that the rear wheel can spin freely.

John gives him a quick smile. “Sounds all right to me,” he comments, nodding at the chain changing smoothly from one sprocket to the next.

“It still drags slightly. I’ll do the last modifications tomorrow.”

Shaking his head, John climbs into bed and reaches for the _Shardlake_ novel. Despite his usual pre-Tour jitters, he is soon engrossed in the book and doesn’t notice when Sherlock stops working on the bike. Only when he exits the bathroom smelling of toothpaste, John looks up. The other is wearing t-shirt and boxers like himself. He looks different in these loose-fitting clothes, softer, more human. Smaller, too, somehow, as if the tight cycling outfit of the team presentation and the crisp shirt and bespoke trousers he wore at the meeting and at dinner added inches to his height. In the warm light of John’s bedside lamp, the tan lines on his long legs and thin arms are even more visible than before. John spots something else on the soft skin of Sherlock’s left elbow when he reaches out to clear his toolkit and other detritus from the coverlet: faint scars. Track marks.

John must have stared, because when he looks up, his eyes meet Sherlock’s, who is watching him with an unreadable expression, holding his gaze staunchly until John breaks the connection, blushing. Sherlock jerks up his chin defiantly, his lips thinning.

“Go on, ask. Best get it over with,” says Sherlock, and it sounds like a challenge. “After all, you’ve heard the rumours surrounding my person, and have clearly exchanged some gossip with the other riders at the bar downstairs.”

John swallows, feeling caught out. They did talk about Sherlock, of course they did, although John didn’t engage, only listened. Much of what was said is wild speculation, he is sure. Sherlock was _the_ hot topic of the evening. And here he sits, in his rather ratty t-shirt and boxers, trying to look unaffected and aloof and not quite managing to convince John that he really doesn’t care what others talk behind his back. “Is it true you were disqualified from the 2008 Tour and subsequent ones because of doping?” John asks at length.

Sherlock watches him. Again, John finds it impossible to read his expression. Is he angry, sad, or simply resigned? Or is he amused, in a dry, sarcastic way? Eventually, Sherlock’s shoulders twitch in a shrug. “I was disqualified for intravenous drug use. You saw my arm.”

“Yes, I did. What did you take?”

“Cocaine.”

John stares at him in surprise. “What? Why? That’s so easily detectable.”

“I didn’t take it to enhance my racing abilities, or speed recovery. It had nothing to do with cycling, in fact.”

“Why did you take it, then?”

“Because I was bored.” There is some finality to his words. John senses that Sherlock doesn’t want to talk about this aspect of his past. Despite his burning curiosity, John resists prying further.

“Marco Pantani died of a cocaine overdose,” he says instead, quietly, remembering the famous Italian climber with the pirate bandana whom he considered an idol until Pantani’s doping allegations cast a shadow on his successes.

Sherlock nods. “I know. But I’m clean now. Have been for years, and I don’t intend to relapse. These scars are almost a decade old.”

John gazes at him as he sits on his bed, his hands in his lap, looking small and strangely vulnerable in the soft light. Once again, John tries to imagine what it must have been like for Sherlock, being suddenly cast into the spotlight because of his success. He was young then, had not been pro for long. No wonder he buckled under the pressure.

“Good,” says John. “If boredom threatens, feel free to ... you know, talk to me. That’s one of the reasons we’re sharing rooms, you know. So that riders have somebody to look after them, someone to talk to, vent to, joke with. Otherwise, races like this are hard to bear, when you’re left alone in your room with your thoughts replaying the stage over and over again, especially when things didn’t go the way you wanted them to, or worse, when there’s been a crash and somebody got injured, or you feel you’ve let your teammates down because you just couldn’t put in the extra effort. At the end of the day, a little domesticity is often a better remedy for pain than drugs. You forget about your aching legs when you fight about what to watch on the telly, or who’s first in the bathroom. So ... yeah. We don’t have to become best friends during these three weeks. Just ... anyway, I’ll shut up now. You know what I mean.”

 _I hope,_ he adds quietly to himself. Sherlock has raised his head and is looking at him, his gaze once more impenetrable. John thinks he detects a trace of warmth in it, however, and of understanding. Sherlock’s lips twitch again, as if he doesn’t quite know whether it’s appropriate to smile. At length he nods once, before stretching out on top of the covers with his back to John, and reaching for his phone on his bedside table.

“Good night, John,” he says quietly.

John watches the line of his back, the halo of his hair illuminated by the blueish light from his phone screen. He shakes his head to himself, but can’t help smiling softly. “Night, Sherlock.”

 

____________

Illustration: Team Presentation


	2. Prologue: 7 July, London, 7,9 km, Individual Time Trial

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks a lot for the warm reception the first chapter of this fic got. Here’s the second chapter now, again betaed by rifleman_s.

Sweat is dripping from John’s forehead and he wipes across his brow with his glove. As expected, the temperature is thirty degrees, more on the road where the asphalt has soaked up heat all day. Even though the area between Horse Guards and St. James’s Park where the cyclists are warming up for the impending prologue is partly shaded by tents and trees, the fact that their bicycles are stationary and there’s almost no air movement adds to the heat. John doesn’t mind. He likes the heat, as long as there’s enough to drink. He reaches for another water bottle and pours some of the liquid over his hair. He shakes his head to send droplets flying. Next to him, Kit Hunter grins as he cycles at high frequency. He’s going to be the first rider of Team Speedy’s/Sussex Honey to compete on today’s short race track. If he is nervous, he’s already professional enough to not let it show – at least now, when he is only about a quarter of an hour away from racing against the clock.

During the morning’s easy ride along the route, down Whitehall and past Westminster Abbey and the Houses of Parliament, followed by a round through Hyde Park to finish on the Mall, Kit rode next to John and simply wouldn’t shut up in his excitement. He looks calmer and more collected now. John hopes that the pressure of being the first of their team to start, with expectations high that he is going to ride a decent time, won’t aggravate Kit’s nerves.

And speaking of nerves and expectations ... A little further away, John sees Sherlock warming up, bent over his bike. He seems lost in a world of his own, listening to something on his phone, the earbuds hidden somewhere under his sweaty mop of hair. His eyes are closed, his head bowed deeply over his aerobars. Unlike many others who prefer a more upright position during warm-up, he is already riding his time trial bike, his lower arms propped up on the aerobars. John wonders if he’s going to ride it during regular stages as well, eschewing the normal racing bikes with their different sets of handlebars. It’s almost as if Sherlock’s married to his bloody machine.

Like the others, he is already wearing his aerodynamic time trial suit, so tight that it looks painted on. John doesn’t like them, preferring the regular gear which is already tight but a lot more comfortable, but he has to admit that on some people, it adds to their overall appearance. Sherlock is one of them. John is surprised how often he catches himself glancing over to his mysterious team- and roommate. He tries to explain his interest – or fascination, rather, because that’s what it is – with the overall novelty, and with Sherlock’s unusual ways. The man is undoubtedly a genius, but there’s also a strange, almost touching vulnerability about him, something John feels an urge to protect. Also, if a little of that interest is just enjoying the view ... well, what of it? It’s not as if John is ever going to act on it. Nope. No, thank you kindly. He’s learned his lesson in that department. No need for a repeat. And also, Sherlock wouldn’t be interested anyway, John is convinced.

 

**– <o>–**

 

Sherlock had already left their shared room when John woke in the morning, and had taken his bike with him. The bathroom had been fairly tidy. John had taken his time, reflecting on the night as he brushed his teeth. Sherlock does not snore, which is good. In fact, John isn’t sure whether he actually slept the previous night. John woke once, some time around two, because he needed the toilet. Sherlock was still awake then and busy with his phone. And when John woke again briefly at quarter to six because of the loud wail of an ambulance siren down on the Strand, Sherlock’s bed was empty already, although he might have been in the ensuite.

Sherlock showed up briefly at breakfast to wolf down some cereal and a banana, before vanishing again. Not one for chats with his teammates, apparently. John found him in conversation – or discussion, rather – with Molly when he visited her and her team of technicians after breakfast so see about the modifications to his bike Sherlock had suggested. Sherlock acknowledged him with a nod, before continuing to complain to Molly and Soo Lin about their lack of compliance. Apparently they had refused to lend him some of their tools. Eventually, he left in a dark mood, muttering to himself and taking his bike with him.

Both women sighed when he was out of sight. “He does know all this technical stuff, but man, is he a pompous prick,” commented Soo Lin.

Molly nodded. “At least he doesn’t seem the mansplaining type. He just believes everybody apart from him is an idiot, regardless of gender. Heard you’re rooming with him, John. How did that go last night, then? Is he as insufferable when he’s not telling the specialists how to do their job? Is he even human?”

John shrugged. “He’s a bit of an arrogant git, yes, but ... actually, he’s okay. Quite strange, though. I don’t really know what to make of him yet. He doesn’t snore, so that’s all right, I guess.”

“He told me to have another look at your bike for today, something about the saddle and the aerobars.”

“Yeah, if you could raise them by about two centimetres, that’d be great. I’ll just try out the new position during our test ride later, and if it doesn’t feel right, we’ll put it back.”

“Did he pull that deduction stunt on you, too?” asked Soo Lin. “Somehow, he seemed to know all about Molls, and me, and about Irene and Kate and several others of the team. He told us he’d ‘seen’ all that stuff. It was kinda creepy, but impressive, too. He even knew about my tattoo.”

“You’ve got a tattoo?” John wanted to know.

“On my upper arm, yes.” She rolls up the sleeve of her t-shirt and shows it to John, who smiles at the motif. “It’s still fairly recent, guess that’s why he deduced it. Still itches a bit, you know. But how on earth he knew it’s a Totoro I have no idea.”

John smiled. “Did he actually call it a Totoro?”

Soo Lin laughed. “Nope. He called it a Manga-style mixture of cat and owl. Close enough, I’d say. He really is a weird one. Bit of a freak, really.”

“Don’t call him that,” said John, quicker and more sharply than intended.

“Why not? It’s true.”

“Yeah, perhaps. But I think he’s heard it a little too often in his life and internalised it. He’s part of our team, and be he however he is, we should try to make him feel as if he belongs, at least a little.”

“Well, perhaps he should make an effort, too,” Molly fell in, “instead of alienating his technicians and other teammates right away. Have a chat with Sarah and ask her how he reacted to her check up this morning. I can deal with upstart riders trying to be smartarses when it comes to technical stuff. Even you tried to pull that one on me four years ago when I was the newbie on this team. But Sarah didn’t take it too well, I heard. I think she even complained to Greg.” She cocked her head, watching John with a thoughtful expression. “You like him, though. Holmes, I mean. Don’t you, John?”

John shrugged. “He’s odd, and rude. But yeah ... I’ve had worse team- and roommates. He’s very smart.”

The two women exchanged a glance. “Smart, eh?” commented Molly, nudging John’s shoulder playfully. “Smartarse, more like.”

“Yes, the arse isn’t too bad, either,” Soo Lin dead-panned. All three laughed.

“Not that John Three-Continents-Watson noticed,” Molly went on. “Ever thought of getting together with Sarah again? I thought you made a good pair.”

John shook his head. “I think we’re better off as friends. Also, I think my Three-Continents days are over. I’m getting too old for these things, particularly when I’m actually racing.”

“Oh, what a loss for the kissing girls at the end of the stage,” teases Molly.

John swats at her playfully. “Oh, shut up, you. That was one time, after I’d actually won a stage. Also, it was long before you joined the team, Molls. So you’re basing your accusation on rumour only.”

“I doubt your reputation is based on rumour only. Anyway, I’ll see what I can do with your bike. Are you sure about the change?”

“Yes, I’d like to try it. Should be easier on my knee and shoulder.”

“All right. What time do you start?”

“The prologue begins at 3 pm, with riders starting at one minute intervals. I’ll be up at 5:16.”

“Good luck, then. Ride safely.”

“Thanks. Will you be in the car accompanying me?”

“No,” said Soo Lin, “I will. Molls will be driving behind Holmes.”

Molly sighed. “Yes. Hope his Highness will be content with his bike. He’s been ... special. But then, I guess he wants to really impress during the prologue. I would, in his shoes.”

 

**– <o>–**

 

Molly’s words in mind, John watches Sherlock as he pedals, oblivious to his surroundings, looking completely in tune with his bike and his body. He doesn’t wipe away sweat, letting it run down his face and arms to drip onto the ground. He barely reaches for his bottle to drink. John can’t help worrying about dehydration, but he knows that some riders prefer not to fill their stomachs too much before a race. Sherlock is going to be Team Speedy’s last rider to compete on the short prologue track, shortly after John himself (thus forcing the team to use two cars to accompany the riders).

Round the corner in Whitehall, the first riders are starting now. The cheers of the audience can be heard despite the Horse Guards building in between. Many people are gathered along the Mall, too, particularly in the finishing area. Some camped out here over night to secure the best spots. By now, the throng along the barriers is several people thick. Security presence is high. _One would think the bloody Queen was coming through later today,_ thinks John with a wry smile. _Perhaps she is watching the proceedings from one of the windows of Buckingham Palace.  
_

Greg is doing another round, waving through the stationary riders, talking to each of them briefly, encouraging them, asking how they’re feeling, dealing out last bits of advice. For most of them, John knows, this prologue is just about being seen on the world’s largest stage. None of his teammates apart from Kit, Jonathan and Sherlock are going to try to win this stage. In fact, a win here would mean extra work for the rest of the team in the stages to come, because today’s winner will also be the current leader in the general as well as the points qualification. It’s coveted because of fame and prize money. But keeping a man in yellow means hard work. John isn’t quite sure what Greg’s strategy is, whether he has planned for the eventuality of one of them gaining yellow so early (or at all). Normally, Lestrade knows his riders, their abilities and personalities very well. But with Sherlock having joined their team so late ... Well, whatever happens, today’s stage is going to be interesting, despite being less than ten kilometres long, which the fastest riders are expected to cover in less than ten minutes.

And it’s good to be on the bike again, and to actually being allowed to ride another Tour. John did feel a twinge of sadness when signing in for today’s prologue, knowing that most likely, it was going to be the last time he did so. Last prologue, and in about three week’s time, if all goes well, he’ll be signing in for the very last stage.

 

**– <o>–**

 

Their warming up area allows a good view of one of the many video screens near the finish. Somebody has also dug out some tablets and installed them near their bikes so that they can watch the race unfold. So far, race times have been quite fast. One of the time trial specialists riding for Team Netflix, some French chap John remembers from last year’s Tour where he came second in the prologue, has set a very good time. There’s not much wind, the roads are dry, and the track is fairly easy without much elevation. It doesn’t have any dangerous bends and corners, either, which should limit the chance of crashes. The crowds are crazy, though. But then, it’s the Tour de France.

John thinks Kit does look a little pale under his strong tan when he’s up on the starting block, waiting for the seconds to be counted down. Kit takes a deep breath, and then the signal sounds and time’s running for him. And he’s fast. John hopes he won’t overdo it on the first kilometres and remember to pace himself. When Kit reaches the split time point as the current race leader, a big cheer goes up from his teammates from their stationary bikes, even though he can’t hear it. The people lining the track are as enthusiastic, though. John knows how much their support can help a rider, spur him on to give his absolute best. Kit certainly seems to fly along the track. _With a little more experience, he’ll make a brilliant time trialist one day,_ thinks John. Involuntarily, his eyes stray to Sherlock. The other is still pedalling rhythmically, using a surprisingly heavy gear for warm up.

He still looks lost in his own head, his eyes closed, sweat dripping out of his hair and running down his face without him making any effort to wipe it away. John wonders if he’s in some kind of trance. He doesn’t even stir when Stephen lets out a loud _whoop_ as Kit reaches the _Flamme Rouge_ , the red pennant marking the final kilometre of a stage. The Germans call it ‘Teufelslappen’, the devil’s rag, and for good reason. Seeing it makes riders give their last, even though one kilometre can feel like a hundred depending on the stage. Kit certainly does give his all, riding at breakneck speed. He still has a very narrow lead on the current rider in first position. With bated breath, Team Speedy’s wait for him approach the finishing line, watching the time of the clock get closer and closer to that of their rival – until it stops, a second before the times match.

“Yes,” cries Harry Lyons, high-fiving Bainbridge who is next to him before dismounting. “Great ride. And I’m off. It’s my turn soon. Wish me luck.”

Bainbridge claps him on the shoulder and gives him the thumbs up.

“He’d be more than lucky to maintain that lead,” muses Anderson, and is booed by Bainbridge. Anderson shrugs. “The big names are yet to come.”

“Come on, Philip, cheer up. It was a good ride. Who cares if he ends up in yellow or not at the end of the day. We’ll be cheering for you in the mountains as well.”

Anderson snorts, but nods. “Wish we’d be riding there already. I hate time trials.”

A sympathetic groan sounds from his teammates (apart from Sherlock, who still seems to block out anything that goes on around him). Apart from a few specialists, nobody really enjoys the discipline. Luckily, with Kit having done so well, there’s less pressure on the rest of them to repeat the performance. Most of them, John knows, won’t punish themselves today but ride as gently as they can without making it look as if they’re simply trundling along. He’s tempted to include himself. Then again, it’s his last prologue. He could put in a bit of effort, just to prove that the old man’s still got what it takes to be a professional cyclist.

Eventually, Kit returns to those of his teammates not currently on the road and his stationary bike to cool down gently with some easy cycling, after he’s been congratulated heartily on his ride. Soon, however, his time is beaten first by one of the Dutch van Coon brothers riding for Team Shad Sanderson, and then by a rider from China competing for Team Hisense. Kit takes it in stride, grinning and shrugging.

“As long as I won’t get beaten by any of you sorry scarecrows, I’ll be content,” he declares between sips from his bottle. “I was even tested for drugs. And since only Philip, Stephen, John and Sherlock haven’t ridden yet, my chances are quite good, what d’ya think?”

“They don’t just test the potential winners, Kit,” returns Anderson. “They draw lots each stage and test some random riders, just to make sure everybody is on their toes. Anyway, I’m up after Stephen. Wish me luck. Hope the wind hasn’t picked up.”

 

**– <o>–**

 

Kit remains in third position for some time. All Team Speedy’s riders before John and Sherlock get through without accident. Anderson, Bainbridge and Dimmock take things fairly easy, riding only fast enough to remain in the allotted time limit, but not stressing themselves. Lyons puts in a bit of effort and lands in a respectable seventh place overall by the time the first of the ‘big names’ arrives on the starting block. Victor Trevor of Team CS, which is sponsored by some Italian media company and a British corporation owned by TV-personality Culverton Smith, is a well-known time trial specialist who has done well in previous Tours and other races, and is the reigning time trial world champion. He’s been around for about a decade, and is certainly wily and experienced. His team captain, two times Giro d’Italia winner Emilio Ricoletti, is also a force to be reckoned with, both in time trials and as a contender for a good placement in the general classification.

The cameras show Trevor adjust his helmet, resplendent in the world champion’s ‘rainbow jersey’, a white outfit with five horizontal stripes in the colours of the Olympic rings. He looks very calm and collected for somebody who certainly has something at stake in this prologue. A tug on the zipper of his overshoe, a touch to his chest where some good luck charm appears to be hidden – he is experienced enough to not let his nerves get the better of him. And yet ... looking at him, John wonders how superstitious he is, whether he believes in the curse of the rainbow jersey that constitutes that the reigning world champion has a bad year after his big win. Whatever goes on in Trevor’s head, however, he doesn’t let it show. One last little adjustment to his seating, the signal sounds, and he is off. And he’s fast.

“There goes my third place,” huffs Kit, sitting back on his bike and pretending to look close to tears. “He’s fucking good.”

A snort from the direction of Sherlock Holmes makes Kit and John glance in his direction. For the first time since he mounted his bike, he has actually lifted his head. He has even removed his earbuds and stopped the music playing on his phone. In fact, he is gazing intently at the screen, his eyes narrowed. Obviously, Victor Trevor has caught his interest, unlike all previous riders. _Perhaps he simply didn’t see them as serious competition_ , John muses. _The world champion must be an altogether different category._

“You don’t think he’ll beat my time, Sherlock?” asks Kit.

Without looking at him, his eyes still fixed on the screen, Sherlock shakes his head. “Oh, he will. By about ten seconds, at least.”

“Damn it,” curses Kit, but without anger. “Think he’s gonna win? If he’s that good.”

“Nope,” returns Sherlock, popping the ‘p’. He turns his head to the others, his expression a strange combination of calmness and a fierce fire in his eyes. “I will.”

 

**– <o>–**

 

To his chagrin, John can’t stick around to listen to Sherlock’s explanation – if ever he even gave one – because he has to make this way to the starting area. Soo Lin is waiting there with his bike. She grins at him. “Good luck, John. Enjoy your ride.”

“Thanks,” says John as he fastens the strap of the helmet under his chin. “I will.”

And he does. Once he’s on the track, with the bike under him and the wind in his face, with the crowds to both sides cheering him on, flags and signs and giant inflatable hands waving, he forgets everything around him. Dimly, he is aware of the camera motorcycle riding alongside, and the voice of Sally Donovan, another of the team’s coaches and _directeurs sportif,_ spurring him on. John likes Sally. She is a no-nonsense person who speaks her mind. In the past, some riders clashed with her authority, preferring to be coached by a man. Macho idiots, in John’s opinion. Sally is an experienced, successful cyclist, having won the Giro Rosa, the female Giro d’Italia, once, as well as Olympic silver and the Road Cycling World Championship, until an injury forced her to stop racing. She’s been with the team for five years now, and to John’s she’s as invaluable as Greg and Molly, Mike and Irene, and all the others.

“You’re doing well, John,” her slightly tinny voice rings in his earpiece. “There’s a bend ahead where the asphalt is quite rough. Try not to cut it too closely. When Harry rode, spectators were hanging over the bannisters and almost made him crash by waving flags into his face.”

The bend Sally indicated is near the Houses of Parliament and Westminster Abbey where people are standing several rows deep behind the barricades. John smiles from pure joy as he strikes past. He’s not exactly striving to achieve a top ten time, but the crowd’s enthusiasm does motivate him. The fact that his shoulder doesn’t bother him for once when riding a time trial bike improves his mood even more. Sherlock has been correct in his estimate. The saddle was too low, and the adjustment he suggested was exactly the right one. _Wonder how he knew. He can’t just have seen it, can he?  
_

On the other hand, the man’s ability to deduce things based on mere observation is remarkable. His intense gaze when talking about the outcome of today’s prologue flashes through John’s mind. Sherlock was so ... confident. _Guess he’s eager to present himself, to his team and the cycling world in general. And perhaps to Victor Trevor in particular._ There was something in the way Holmes watched his race ... Perhaps John is imagining things. But he’s seen personal vendettas in his time, and this definitely looked like one. He wishes he’d done a bit of research about Sherlock’s past last night. Then again, it would have felt like snooping, with the man sitting on the other bed. _Well, perhaps he’s ready to divulge another bit of personal information tonight,_ muses John as he sprints across the bridge spanning the Serpentine, people on boats calling up to him and waving, with Christo’s gigantic purple edifice floating behind them. _If the mood strikes him again.  
_

He realises that he actually looks forward to the evening, when he and his enigmatic roommate are on their own and John can start another attempt at unravelling the shrouds of mystery in which Sherlock Holmes has wrapped himself.

 

**– <o>–**

According to Sally, John’s split time is more than respectable. “You’re doing brilliantly, John. You’re in eleventh place right now. That’s remarkable. Don’t overdo it on the last stretch, though. Your heart-rate is almost at its peak.”

This surprises John. He didn’t notice he is riding at his top capacity. Everything feels so effortless. Nothing really hurts. He isn’t even out of breath – much. He blames how well things are going on the location and the atmosphere. In all his years of riding in the Tour, he’s never had an audience like this. Not even in Paris on the Champs Elysées, where the last stage traditionally ends. Perhaps it’s because he’s riding in his hometown, or because it’s his last Tour. Grinning to himself, he adjusts his position and heads towards Buckingham Palace and the Mall.

He speeds across the finish line to Sally’s cheer over the earpiece, to the roar of the crowds, and to the voice of the French announcer who declares that John Watson has narrowly landed in fifteenth place overall, a remarkable feat for a veteran like him. Not that John is going to stay in this position for very long, now that the big GC contenders and more time trial specialists are lining up. Still, he is happy about his placement.

Mike Stamford, one of the physiotherapists and a good friend of John’s, waits for him behind the finish to hand him water bottles and wipe him down with a cool flannel. “Great ride, John. Come on, let’s make you comfortable after your drugs test.”

He leads John over to the trailer where blood and urine samples are being taken. John doesn’t mind that the lot has landed on him this time. He has nothing to hide. He does wonder how those riders must feel who have used drugs. Are they nervous? Do they hope they’re one step ahead of the controlling instances and that nothing will be found? Quickly, he complies with what’s asked of him, marvelling as so often that after sweating so much and drinking relatively little because of the short stage, there’s actually something in his bladder to gift the drug controllers with.

Once he’s done and has refreshed himself a little, he lingers near the finish with good view of one of the large screens. Mike is keeping him company. The last rider of their team is about to start. John is more than curious how well Sherlock is going to do, especially after his daring announcement that he’s going to win the stage.

“He really said that?” Mike wants to know, shaking his head in wonder.

John nods while gulping down some more of his isotonic drink. “Cool as a cucumber,” he replies. “Seemed very confident. Guess he wants to prove he’s still got it.”

“Probably. Perhaps he also wants to simply beat Victor Trevor.”

“Yeah, I noticed there seemed to be something strange about how Sherlock reacted to Trevor when he was riding. He was the only rider he actually watched. He completely ignored all others. Didn’t show any interest in how his own teammates were faring, either. What’s it with those two?”

Mike shrugs. “Not sure. Professional rivalry, I’d say. Trevor isn’t exactly coy about what a great time trialist he is. I mean, why would he be, as the reigning World Champion? Still, this kind of attitude must rankle a chap like Holmes who also seems very self-assured and confident in his abilities, even if he doesn’t brag about them in public the way Trevor does. Did you read that interview with Trevor in _L’Équipe_ last month? They had photographs where he posed like a supermodel.”

John shrugs. “Well, he is a good rider,” says John. “But so is Holmes, I guess.”

He recalls the softer, t-shirt clad version of the man he encountered in their room last night, who seemed unsure whether it was okay to laugh at a joke, and who’d never shared a room before. John is certain that most of Sherlock’s haughty, outwardly confident, almost abrasive demeanour is a front, maybe to protect himself from hurt. Hurt from whom, though? The likes of Victor Trevor?

“Trevor is handsome, too, for a man and a cyclist,” a sultry voice sounds behind the two men.

“Oh, hello Irene,” says John without turning, his eyes fixed on the screen. Sherlock has now mounted the starting block. He sits still as a statue on his bike. No last second adjustments, no nervous touches, no good luck gestures. He simply waits until his time is counted down, and then explodes into action. Both John and Mike let out a breath when he’s on the track.

“What do you mean, for a cyclist?” asks John playfully.

“Well,” says Irene Adler, another of Team Speedy’s physiotherapists, as she steps next to them, a bag with water bottles, flannels, towels and other utensils slung over her shoulder. Even though like Mike, she is attired in the team jersey and overall practical clothes, her hair is perfectly styled and her make-up, despite the heat, is impeccable. John wonders how she does it, looking so well turned out even under less than ideal conditions.

“Most of you are real scarecrows,” continues Irene. “Sherlock’s odd but interesting looking, and you, John, are quite cute. Trevor could be called handsome, I guess. I’m simply talking aesthetics here, though. Not really my area, you boys, as well you know.”

John chuckles. “Well, in that case ...” He winks at Irene, who swats him with a towel.

“They used to be teammates,” she says.

“Who?” asks Mike. “Holmes and Trevor?”

Irene smiles mysteriously at the two men. “You don’t remember, John?”

John shrugs. “When was that supposed to have been? During Sherlock’s last – and only – Tour in 2007?”

“Of course,” says Irene. “They were both riding for that French Team, Danone. My little brother Jan was on there as well, as the team’s sprinter. Both Holmes and Trevor had been taken on for the time trials, and Trevor to take a stab at GC, too. Trevor had already made himself a name, had gone pro a few years previously, and won the national championship, if I recall correctly. Holmes was new and absolutely a wild card. He must have shown talent in that discipline, otherwise he wouldn’t have been signed on, but nobody really knew how well he’d do in a major stage race. He proved a lucky number, though. Trevor didn’t do as well as expected, and was beaten by Holmes in every time trial except the prologue. Trevor claimed illness was to blame, but I think Holmes was simply the better time trialist. Caused a bit of bad blood in the team back then. I recall Jan complaining about the tense atmosphere, and the animosity especially between Trevor and Holmes – even though they started out as pals, it seems, having known each other from some posh school or Uni or something.”

She shrugs. “Perhaps it’s understandable. If you’re supposed to be a star rider like Trevor, and then along comes a virtual no-name like Holmes to de-throne you ... can’t have been easy, especially for an ego like Trevor’s. The press covering that Tour didn’t help, either. The tabloids blew up whatever happened between Holmes and Trevor into a huge personal feud, suggesting that Holmes quit the team because of their falling out, and that Trevor made sure to spread doping allegations to discredit Holmes so that he’d never be taken on by Danone again, anyway, nor any other serious pro team.”

“Oh yeah, now that you mention it,” falls in Mike, “I do recall a headline in _The Sun_ or some such respectable paper, some time later that year, calling Holmes a druggie because cocaine had been found in his bag. Back then there were rumours that somebody had planted it on him to get rid of him, although he never contested the allegations. Perhaps it was Trevor. Anyway, shush now, he’s approaching the split time check point.”

“He’ll do that whether we talk or not, Mike,” quips Irene, but she, too, falls silent and watches as Sherlock draws near the check point. The announcer is raving excitedly about the effortlessness of his cycling, his fluent, aesthetic style, and about his time, of course. And he’s right. All of these features in themselves are spectacular and quite fascinating to watch. But the time is the most remarkable. Sherlock has beaten Victor Trevor’s already excellent split time by about ten seconds.

“Wow,” John breathes. “He didn’t joke around earlier.”

“Wonder if he’ll be able to keep up this speed,” muses Mike.

“Wonder if he’s riding clean,” mutters Irene.

Both men turn to her. She shrugs, her expression grim. “Don’t pretend you didn’t think about it. I’m still cross with Jan about the shit he pulled. He’s still banned until next year, the stupid boy. One more transgression, and it’s going to be a lifetime ban for my little brother, the idiot. And with so much pressure resting on Sherlock now, and with the rumours about his past ... must be hard to fight the temptation of a quick boost.”

John sighs. He _has_ thought about it. Of course he has. He tends to wonder about every single rider’s relationship with performance-enhancing substances now. And Sherlock, with his history of actual class A drug use, even if he claims it was recreational ... One the other hand, he had seemed genuine when he insisted he’d been clean for years. The track marks on his arm were old scars, faded with time and barely visible. Of course he could have injected drugs in places where no marks would be visible, but somehow, John doubts it.

Sherlock has passed Hyde Park Corner now and is riding along the western border of Green Park, closing in on Buckingham Palace. The cameras are staying with him almost constantly now, only rarely cutting to other riders currently on the track. His time is still excellent. Unless he breaks down on the last stretch or has an accident, he’ll set a new best. A quick cut shows Moriarty in starting position. Cut back to Sherlock who flies along the track. Then there’s a cut to Victor Trevor in his team’s warming up area, showing him watching the screen tensely. His expression is grim, quite angry, actually, as he sees his stage win evaporate before his eyes, and by quite a large margin, too.

Sherlock is on the finishing stretch now. Greg in the car behind him must have updated him on his time, moreover he is in range now to hear the moderator lose his shit about the extraordinarily fast time. The cameraperson on the motorcycle accompanying him makes sure to get a close-up of his expression when, shortly before the finishing line, he lifts his head and gazes directly into the lens, as if to show the world that yes, Sherlock Holmes is back. He doesn’t lift his hand in victory or anything of the kind, simply rushes cross the finishing line with a margin of 13 seconds – a serious one by prologue standards.

The screen is split to show both Sherlock and Victor Trevor side by side. The latter curses visibly and thumps the handlebars of his bike. Some of the teammates standing next to him are looking disappointed. They still have a good time trialist on the track, their team captain Ricoletti, but John doubts that he’ll manage to beat Sherlock’s and indeed Trevor’s time. With some reporters closing in on Trevor, he gets up from his bike and vanishes into his team’s coach that’s parked nearby, somehow managing to slam the door violently. The camera swerves to show one of his teammates, a wiry Italian sporting a funny little moustache which has earned him the nickname ‘Super Mario’ in the peloton. He shrugs and smiles sadly, shaking his head and making a kill motion to the cameras.

John only catches a glimpse of it before Irene, Mike and him are dashing towards Sherlock who has slowed down in the chaos of press, team helpers and general Tour staff behind the finish. Sherlock’s bike lurches dangerously, almost hitting a reporter who jumps backwards just in time. Sherlock seems to have trouble unclipping one of his feet from the pedals, almost keeling over still attached to his bike. Eventually he manages and dismounts, with Kate, another of Team Speedy’s technicians and Irene’s wife, stepping up to take his bike from him. Almost reluctantly, Sherlock relinquishes his iron grip of the aerobars. At first, John thinks that he doesn’t want to be parted from his precious machine, but then Sherlock sways, takes a small step and stumbles.

Automatically, John rushes over to him to assist him, slinging an arm round his middle to steady him. Sherlock gazes at him in shock, obviously not having noticed his approach, and moreover surprised by the sudden touch. But after tensing briefly, he leans on John to keep himself upright. John can feel him shake all over, and looking down, he sees how his legs are trembling violently. Sherlock is gasping for breath, seems barely able to lift his head. John clasps his shoulder reassuringly with his free hand.

“Brilliant ride, Sherlock,” he congratulates him. Sherlock only grunts in reply, and John knows that for once, this isn’t just his cold, somewhat distant demeanour speaking, but rather the fact that the man is completely done in, barely able to keep on his legs. _You bloody idiot,_ thinks John, but not without a strange, warm surge of fondness for his dishevelled and utterly spent teammate. _You made it look smooth and effortless and beautiful, great actor that you are, but in truth you’ve completely exhausted yourself, just to prove to some arsehole who dissed you over ten years ago that you’re better than him.  
_

Mike and Irene have appeared at Sherlock’s side, taking over from John to prop up his teammate, with Mike upending an entire bottle of water over him after taking off his helmet. Irene hands him another bottle which Sherlock practically inhales, followed by a packet of energy gel and more water. John can tell from the sudden paleness underneath his flushed face, and the fact that he still seems to be having trouble keeping his balance that Sherlock is seriously hypoglycaemic and dehydrated. _Idiot hasn’t eaten enough previously, and spent much longer warming up than anybody else without drinking adequately._ He signs to Irene who understands, rummaging in her back for a small bottle of Coke. Sherlock stares at the proffered drink, before reaching out with a shaking hand and emptying it with two long draughts interrupted by a desperate gulp of air.

“Sarah’s on her way,” says Mike, but Sherlock shakes his head.

“I’m fine,” he rasps.

“Doctor’s gonna decide that, mate. Here, sit down. I’ll wipe you down in a sec, once you’ve got your breath back. John, can you stay with him for a moment?”

John nods. Once more, Sherlock flashes him a quick, strangely intense glance John finds impossible to read, before he lets himself being lowered to the kerb. John sits down next to him. Sherlock’s legs haven’t stopped trembling, but his breathing is calmer now. He is still sweating profusely, but rather from exertion, not the shock that seemed to have threatened before he received the sugar boost. He is sipping from his water bottle, his head bowed, sweat dripping from his curls, some of which have fallen over his forehead. Sherlock doesn’t move to brush them away. Slowly, his position shifts until John can feel his shoulder touch his own. Sherlock sags some more, until he is partially leaning on John. With a shaking hand, he slowly reaches up to his throat to fumble for the zip of his jersey, but doesn’t seem to manage to pull it down. Without thinking, John does it, opening the jersey almost down to Sherlock’s navel, revealing a skinny chest where the monitor for measuring his heartbeat is missing. Sherlock must have taken it off before the race. Sherlock tenses briefly at John’s interference, but doesn’t protest, but remains slumped against his teammate.

Reporters are closing in from all sides. Irene, Mike, and Greg, who has dashed over after parking the car, try to keep them at bay. Sherlock seems unable to speak in sentences, anyway, still gasping for breath and gently resting against John, obviously to prevent himself from simply keeling over, as much as this would be possible in the crowded space. John feels a sudden urge to wrap his arm around the others narrow, trembling shoulders to steady him, and to rub his back to help him get his breathing under control. But he doubts it would be welcome. Also, doing so in full view of the reporters, the cameras of whom are flashing into their faces ... not advisable. It might give them the wrong idea.

So instead, he raises his right hand slightly and lets it hover behind Sherlock’s bowed back, not quite touching, but ready to do so should an extra prop be required. Mike kneels down next to them and begins to wipe Sherlock down with a cool flannel, while Greg is talking to the eager press. Of course today’s race isn’t finished yet, but Sherlock’s chances are very good, particularly since Moriarty, another good time trialist and contender for winning this stage has landed in third place, ten seconds behind Trevor. Now all eyes are on Ricoletti and Wilkes, the last two serious candidates for beating Sherlock’s time yet.

“What’s your strategy should your man win the yellow jersey today, Mr. Lestrade?” a reporter from the BBC wants to know.

Greg gives him a grim smile. “Defend it, of course. What else do you expect me to say?”

“Is Sherlock Holmes a possible contender for the general classification? After all, he won the white jersey years ago and did really well in the mountains back then.“

“Wait and see. First we have to make it to France and survive the first stages over there. Depending on the weather, the cobble-stones will be carnage. Then there are the mountains. In the Alps, the cards will be mixed and dealt anew. Ask me again once we’ve survived those, and have seen the riders face another time trial.”

A microphone is brandished in Sherlock’s face. “Sherlock, congratulations on a great ride. Do you think your time will be good enough today?”

Sherlock rouses at the direct address. Still sitting next to him, John can see how much effort it takes. Sherlock’s pale eyes land on the reporter, someone from French television speaking with a thick accent. “Yes,” answers Sherlock.

“What are your aspirations for the rest of the Tour?”

Sherlock’s eyes narrow. John wonders what he’s deducing about the reporter. “Reach Paris,” comes the curt reply.

The reporter exchanges an irritated glance with his camerawoman, obviously unsure how to continue the interview after that. John can’t stop a grin from spreading over his face. Sherlock’s dead-pan repartees are like a draught of fresh air compared to the guarded (or inane) interviews one usually hears. “Good luck with that, then,” the reporter mutters, before an excited whisper amongst the media crowd causes them to turn to the screens. Ricoletti is drawing close to the final stretch on the Mall now.

“He won’t beat Moriarty’s time,” mutters Sherlock, sagging slightly again. John exchanges a worried glance with Mike. Sherlock is even more exhausted than he lets on. John begins to gently rub his back, feeling his knobbly spine through the thin fabric of the jersey. As before, Sherlock tenses briefly at the touch, but soon relaxes into it. Sherlock opted against carrying a camelback for the prologue (in time trials, riders often prefer these to water bottles so as not to have to reach down to grab their drink and so slow down), and didn’t have any water bottle on his bike. His skin is burning, despite him sweating so much and Mike’s ministrations with the flannel. John shakes his head slightly. Greg and Sarah really must have a word with him: lack of sleep, hydration and food are taking their toll today. And this was only the prologue. How on earth is Sherlock supposed to survive a full-length time trial when he ignores the basics, not to mention three weeks of arduous cycling that brings even the most conscientious and well prepared rider to his utmost limits. Sherlock is neither weak nor frail, as he showed today. He’s just ...

“You’re a bloody idiot,” mutters John, but it sounds more fond than accusing. “Next time, you eat and sleep and drink properly before you push yourself to your limit.”

“This wasn’t my limit,” returns Sherlock, taking another gulp from a water bottle. His statement is contradicted by a fit of coughing. John rubs his back some more.

“Yeah, says the man who nearly fainted upon dismounting,” he quips. “Seriously. You’re a brilliant cyclist, Sherlock Holmes, but you’re also a complete nutter. Also, you’re not in your twenties anymore. Take it from an oldie like myself. Tomorrow will be a shit day because you overdid it today.”

Sherlock lifts his head and glances at John, and the corner of his mouth quirks up in a smile. “Well, it’s going to have one perk, though. Because I gain the _maillot jaune_ today, tomorrow all of you will work hard to keep me nicely sheltered and comfortable. I look forward to riding in your slipstream, John Watson, and have you hand me snacks and water bottles.”

John glares at him, but can’t help a grin from spreading over his face. “Well, if that’s required to keep your lush arse in the saddle, Sherlock Holmes, I’ll gladly fetch the extra energy bar for you. I’ll even get you an additional portion of cake. Everything for the man in yellow – should you really manage to take the lead.” He gives Sherlock’s back a gentle thump for emphasis, before withdrawing his hand.

Sherlock gazes at him from under his mop of wet curls, his expression observant, thoughtful and oddly ... fond. It’s only for a moment, but it ignites something warm and glowing inside John. Sherlock nods towards the screen, where Ricoletti can be seen approaching the finish. “Watch.”

Sherlock is right about the other contenders. Ricoletti comes third, two seconds after Moriarty. Of the three cyclists out on the track now, only Wilkes still has a chance of reaching the top three. The other two are already more than half a minute behind Sherlock’s time. Wilkes was close to Trevor’s split time at the check point, but seems unable to muster the extra energy to ride for victory. Then again, he doesn’t have to. He isn’t aiming to win the prologue, but the Tour, and gaining yellow today would mean early work for his team, using up energy they’re going to need in the mountains where the real battle for the GC is fought.

Having warded off the reporters for now, Lestrade stands gazing down at Sherlock, shaking his head and running a hand through his hair. “What am I going to do with you, Holmes?” he sighs.

Sherlock looks up and meets his gaze steadily. He seems recovered enough to display some of his usual reserve and aloofness. “Trust me. I know what I’m doing.”

“Didn’t quite look like that just now, mate. Listen, I know you’re a pro like the rest, but you’ve not been in a race for a long time. I do trust you, otherwise I wouldn’t have let you join the team. But you have to trust me and the rest of us, too. Congrats on your brilliant ride today. I really mean that. But Sherlock, I need you to look after yourself and stay healthy. You can win more than this prologue in this Tour, and I want all of my riders to reach Paris, not just a select few. From now on, you’ll adhere to the agreements like everybody else. First of all, you’ll check in with Sarah regularly. You’ll wear the bloody heart rate monitor so we can keep an eye on your vitals during the race. When I tell you to slow down, you’ll slow down. You’ll eat and drink enough before each stage, during it, and afterwards. If you don’t get along with John in your shared rooms – which, honestly, I can’t imagine, because only complete arseholes don’t get along with Johnny here – we’ll find a solution. No more soloing. I mean it. You’re part of a team now, and you’re going to honour that. If that means playing water carrier, you’ll do that, too. Otherwise, I’ll kick you off as quickly as I signed you on. Understood?”

John watches Sherlock who has sat up, his shoulders squared and his spine straight. The gaze he bestows upon Greg is calculating. It almost looks as if a battle is fought, until Sherlock casts down his eyes and inclines his head. “Understood.”

Lestrade clears his throat, obviously surprised by the compliance. “Good.” He bends down to clap Sherlock’s shoulder. “Well done, Sherlock. The prologue, I mean. Wilkes has just passed the _Flamme Rouge_ , and unless he’s some kind of wizard with extra speed-boosting powers, he’s not going to beat your time. So, looks like you’ll be getting a fancy new outfit for tomorrow.”

 

**– <o>–**

 

The following hours pass in a rush. Sebastian Wilkes crosses the finishing line with exactly the same time as Moriarty, putting him in third place behind Sherlock and Victor Trevor. Moriarty is fourth, Ricoletti fifth. Kit manages a respectable eighth place, John is nineteenth, a lot better than he anticipated. As soon as Sherlock’s victory is confirmed, he is whisked away for a drugs test, followed by the awards ceremony. Together with his teammates, John watches from a distance as Sherlock steps onto the podium. He receives a yellow jersey that closes in the back – it’s just for the ceremony, John knows. A bag with a choice of jerseys will be given to Sherlock to wear tomorrow during the race. The one he puts on now, with the help of the two young women to each side of him in their yellow dresses, is something to either keep as a memento, or sign and donate to charity. The same goes for the stuffed lion toy that’s handed to Sherlock, the former mascot of the yellow jersey’s sponsor, French bank Crédit Lyonnais. Sherlock receives flowers, too, and kisses on the cheeks from the ladies to either side of him, followed by handshakes by the officials, the major of London, and a small host of important persons.

He endures it all stoically, showing neither particular joy and elation nor his usual disdain. To John, he simply looks tired and relieved. Sherlock endures two more ceremonies (one celebrating his stage win, and one awarding him the green jersey for the leader in the points classification, which, however, tomorrow will be worn by Victor Trevor as the next best rider), before he is thrown before the press and has to endure countless interviews. There is no ceremony for the polka-dot jersey because there were no classified climbs and mountain points in the prologue. Kit is awarded the white jersey for the best rider under twenty-five years of age, a fact he was unaware of until Lestrade and Donovan usher him towards the podium. The red number goes to a young French rider who crashed rather spectacularly on his way through Hyde Park but managed to struggle through to the finish, blood running down his arm, one sleeve of his jersey ripped off.

Team Speedy’s are in high spirits when they return to the hotel, where the physiotherapists are already waiting to administer massages. Since the stage was so short, many riders opt for a brief treatment only, preferring to use the hotel’s pool and jacuzzi to aid recovery instead. John isn’t surprised when Sherlock doesn’t make an appearance, and decides to give him some privacy in their room, hanging out with an exuberant Kit and some others while enjoying the waters.

Sherlock does show up at dinner, freshly showered, his hair styled into artful curls. He does rather keep to himself in the beginning – or tries to. Upon spotting him, Lestrade gets up and drags him to the large communal table. Mrs. Hudson greets Sherlock like he’s her own son, hugging him and kissing his cheek. To John’s surprise, he doesn’t tense or struggle, but smiles at her fondly. Apparently, they know each other quite well. John wonders whether his invitation to join the team ultimately came from her.

To celebrate today’s victory, Mrs. Hudson has ordered champagne. The bubbly isn’t plentiful. Just a drop for everybody, really, but enough to toast a brilliant start of the 2018 Tour de France. With a deep sigh, Sherlock accepts a glass (after Lestrade staunchly ignored his initial refusal), and is forced to clink it with everybody.

“You don’t get to mope in a corner again, Sherlock Holmes,” announces Sally Donovan, “not after your spectacular ride today. So better get used to this. To you, and to Kit, and the rest of you. We’re second in the team classification, right behind Team CS. So well done, boys. And ladies, too. Everything worked brilliantly today.”

“Exactly, Sally,” says Lestrade. “Enjoy today. Tomorrow will mean work. It’s a flat stage from London to Dover, perfect for sprinters. Due to the strange weather, there’s going to be headwind for most of the stage. It’s to be expected that some groups will try to escape early on, but we don’t reckon they’ll have much of a chance of getting through. Of the sprinters, Morstan and Le Blanc are best positioned to win yellow tomorrow, should they manage to bridge the time they’re behind Sherlock. It should be our goal to prevent that, and keep Sherlock in yellow at least until we reach the Alps. Yes, gentlemen, I know this means hard work, but we have the manpower to achieve this. We’ll have to control the peloton’s speed tomorrow, making sure escapees don’t get too much of a head start. The last hour of the stage will be crucial, but I think we can count on the help of the other teams who have sprinters riding for a stage win. Stephen and Harry, tomorrow is one of your stages, so you’ll keep a low profile until you’re on the last stretch, unlike there’s a chance to fetch points during the intermediate sprints. Same goes for you, Philip. The stage has three category four climbs, but it only makes sense for you to put in an effort there if you’re _tete de la course_. Most of the work should be done by the others. Sherlock, make sure you ride near the head of the peloton. The last bit of the stage is tricky: narrow roads and some sharp bends before the finish, once you’re in Canterbury. There’s a high chance that there will be a crash. Try not to get caught in it. I’ll brief you with more details tomorrow. Nine a.m., sharp. And now, enjoy your meal – yes, you too, Sherlock. I won’t have you nearly faint because of lack of nutrition again, you hear. And while I’m all for celebrating, keep tomorrow’s stage in mind. So keep an eye on the alcohol, folks.”

After the meal, most of Team Speedy’s riders linger in the lounge, where they are soon joined by cyclists and staff from other teams. It’s all rather friendly and jovial. John stays for about an hour, exchanging jokes and stories, but mostly listening. Again, Sherlock Holmes is one of the most talked about subjects. The man himself is nowhere to be seen, having slipped out soon after dinner. Feeling a strange urge to talk to him, or simply share his company, John takes his leave and sets out in the direction of their room.

As he crosses the lobby to reach the lifts, he spots Sherlock entering one, and calls to him to keep the door open. Sherlock does so, and John hurries across to join him. “Thanks, Sherlock. You going up?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes, nodding towards the panel where the number of their floor is already illuminated. “Obviously.”

The door closes and the lift begins to move. Since Sherlock makes no attempt to continue the conversation, John begins to feel a little awkward. Suddenly, Sherlock stirs, and drawing a deep breath, he says quietly. “Thank you.”

John turns his head to look at him. He stands very straight and still, gazing ahead at the mirrored walls. On his high cheekbones, however, John thinks he can detect the faintest of blushes. Is Sherlock embarrassed, perhaps? Why? Because of what befell after the prologue? John is confused.

“Um ... you’re welcome, I guess. What exactly are you referring to?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes again. “Your ... assistance today. And your words. You’re right. I miscalculated. I didn’t take into account the excessive heat, nor the fact that I would be riding so late. Hence my inadequate levels of hydration and nutrition. It won’t happen again.”

John nods. “Good.”

They don’t talk again until they’ve reached their room. John smiles when he sees the lion toy on Sherlock’s pillow, next to a bag containing a collection of yellow jerseys sporting the team logos. Sherlock only rolls his eyes again, but looks pleased all the same, stepping over to his bed and picking up the lion.

“If all goes well, you’ll be having a whole pride of lions by the end of next week,” remarks John. Sherlock shrugs, running his hand over the lion’s furry mane absently.

“Perhaps.”

John shakes his head at the other’s strange mood. “You need the loo? Otherwise I’ll take the bathroom now.”

“Feel free.”

 

**– <o>–**

 

Half an hour later, both are settled in their beds. It’s not very late yet. John has tried reading, but found he couldn’t concentrate and thus picked up his tablet to click through the news. Almost automatically, he comes across accounts of the prologue. Most are exultant that a British rider fetched yellow on the first day, and on home turf, too. John avoids the tabloids with their less positive but rather more speculative headlines. He smiles when he finds his own name pop up, mostly in combination with terms such as ‘veteran’ or ‘old-timer’. Well, he is. And the old-timer made the top twenty today. So take that, people.

Sherlock is busy with his phone again. John watches him as he sits with a pillow in his back, the curls spread against the headboard. He is frowning at the screen, the light from below making his odd features look even stranger, sharpening his cheekbones and outlining the indecent shape of his cupid’s bow – wait, indecent? Where has this come from? John shakes his head to get rid of the intrusive thought. Nope. Not going there, thank you very much.

He clears his throat, suddenly feeling the need to make conversation, despite suspecting that Sherlock doesn’t miss it and in fact rather appreciates the silence. “Um ... thanks for your suggestions concerning my time trial bike,” says John, feeling a little awkward. Sherlock interrupts scrolling through something on his phone and looks at him.

“The improved position gained you about twenty seconds, I estimate. You should have spent more time in the wind tunnel, fine-tuning your seating position.”

John shakes his head, smiling. “I’m not a time trial specialist like you, Sherlock. I’m not expected to win any stages or even do a good time in this discipline, simply to survive without crashing or not making the time limit. Today was ... it was rather special, wasn’t it? The atmosphere, I mean. All those people cheering. Riding in London of all cities. I think that gave me an extra boost, at least as much as the changed position on the bike.”

Sherlock gazes at him as if considering the extraordinary circumstances of today’s prologue for the first time, as if only now the fact that he rode in London registers with him.

John laughs softly at his expression. “You didn’t notice it, did you? You tuned it all out. You were completely focused on your ride.”

Sherlock’s brows knit in another frown. “Of course. Weren’t you?”

“I was, yes, but I did take in the crowds, and some of my surroundings. That’s part of the fun of the Tour, isn’t it? It’s the world’s greatest sports spectacle, on the largest open air stage, and you’re part of it. It’s special, and invigorating, don’t you find?”

Sherlock blinks at him. “I prefer to stay focused. Distraction leads to decreased performance, and, worse, accidents.”

Unbidden, the cursed image of James Sholto losing control of his bike in a difficult bend during a descent flashes through John’s mind. Distraction ... yes, Sherlock is right. It’s one of the biggest liabilities for a cyclist. And James was distracted that day, he must have been. And John’s the one to blame.

Feeling Sherlock’s penetrating eyes on him, John suddenly wonders how much about his guilt Sherlock can read in his features, and what he can deduce from it. Does he even care about John and his problems? Why should he? He seems to care about little else than cycling. Tempted to look away, John nevertheless holds his gaze steadily until he can’t bear the scrutiny any longer, feeling a blush creep into his cheeks. He clears his throat again. “Yeah, well, anyway. Thanks for the suggested modification. Any tips for the bike I’m using for the upcoming flat stages?”

Sherlock launches into a long explanation of technical details which would mean a partial reconstruction of John’s bicycle. John stares at him, shaking his head in wonder. “Are you pulling my leg now? How on earth can you know all that?”

“In preparation, before joining this team, I did some research, and subsequently watched footage of all my teammates – normal procedure, I would think,” returns Sherlock, somewhat defensively. “I also watched you ride today.”

“You did?” asks John, surprised. “Wow. Guess I should be flattered that I managed to elicit your interest when almost nobody else today made you even look up from your aerobars.”

Sherlock huffs. “I had to check whether my observations about your seating position and the changes I suggested based on my initial deductions were correct.”

John smiles. “Of course. Must have been nice to have your brilliance confirmed. Still, I am flattered that I made your very short watch-list, right behind your old pal Victor Trevor.”

John is sure Sherlock is trying to hide it, but he sees it nevertheless: the minute stiffening of his shoulders, the twitch of his lower lip, the narrowing of his eyes. He recalls what Irene and Mike told him, and remembers that he wanted to do a bit of research about Trevor and Sherlock and their odd but very obvious rivalry.

“Victor Trevor is not my ‘pal’,” spits Sherlock, the last word dripping with disdain.

 _Ah, so this is a tense subject._ “Well, yeah, that much was obvious today,” agrees John quickly, trying to soothe Sherlock’s prickly, defensive mood and keep him talking. “He threw quite a fit when you beat his time.”

Sherlock’s guarded face lights up. “He did?”

“Oh yes. Almost unhinged the door of their coach, the way he pulled it shut.”

The faintest of smiles, one of dark satisfaction, twitches in the corners of Sherlock’s mouth. John feels emboldened. “What’s it with you two? Why this bad blood?”

Sherlock sighs. Once more, he bends his penetrating gaze on John. “Why don’t you consult the all-knowing internet, John,” he says, nodding towards the tablet on John’s lap, speaking without anger, just a hint of bitter resignation.

John shrugs. “Because I’d prefer to hear it from you. It’s obvious that something happened that made you ... well, more than sporting rivals. Something that goes way back. And I’m sure the internet and particularly the online tabloids have all kinds of things to say about that. But I’m not interested in gossip or campaigns to discredit the two of you. Nor do I want to fill the coffers of the _Fail_ or some other click-bait rag by going through their rubbish articles.”

Sherlock watches him keenly for a moment, apparently trying to determine whether John’s words are truthful. Then he looks away, his eyes resting on the blanket over his lap and the phone he’s absently twirling in his long fingers. Eventually, he draws a deep breath, his shoulders sagging with the exhale.

“I’m tired, John,” he says quietly, and John understands that it doesn’t just refer to his exhaustion after giving everything in the prologue today. It must also mean tiredness about people’s endless prying into his personal life. Despite curiosity gnawing in his gut more than ever now, he decides to let the matter rest. Perhaps another, better opportunity to learn more about Sherlock’s past will present itself. After all, they’ve only known each other for two days.

John swallows and averts his gaze. “Okay. Mind if I read for a bit?”

“No.”

“Right. Good night then, Sherlock.”

“Good night, John.”

John watches Sherlock slip under the blanket and get settled on his side, after depositing his phone on his bedside table and plugging it in to charge. John, too, lies down, and exchanges tablet for novel. He’s read a few sentences when he hears Sherlock stir. “Thank you, John,” he murmurs.

John is tempted to enquire what he’s being thanked for, but somehow, he feels it doesn’t matter. It could be for not prying further tonight, for helping Sherlock after today’s stage. _For simply treating him like a human being, neither a freak nor a money-spinning cycling prodigy._

Swallowing around the sudden lump in his throat, and feeling a strange desire to rub Sherlock’s shoulder reassuringly, he nods. “You’re welcome,” he replies.

It could be a trick of the fading light in the room, but it seems as if Sherlock’s somewhat tense form relaxes. Soon after, his deep, regular breaths indicate he has fallen asleep. John watches him for a while, unable to draw his gaze away. He can’t really see his face, but simply looking at the tousled head of dark curls on the white pillow fills his chest with warmth. _I’m going to see to it that this weird, infuriating, utterly fascinating and oddly endearing git reaches Paris all right._

Smiling to himself, he shifts into a more comfortable position and dives into the world of Tudor England.

 

___________

 

 


	3. Stage 1: 8 July, London to Canterbury, 203 km, Plain Stage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again thank you very much for the many lovely comments and kudos. Here’s the next chapter now, once again betaed by the wonderful rifleman_s. It has two illustrations. 
> 
> I’m going to take a brief break from this fic now and write a short Christmassy sequel to my Codebreaker/WW2 AU [_**Enigma**_](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1991325/chapters/4313418), which I hope to finish in time for the holidays. Afterwards, we’re going to return to the boys and their adventures in France.

__________

 

“You’re plastered all over the press this morning, boys,” Kate greets John and Sherlock as they join the rest of the team at breakfast. She waves a copy of _The Evening Standard_ at them, while on the table where apparently Sherlock is supposed to sit, somebody has made the effort of creating a small arrangement of all things yellow, mostly pasta and bananas, complimented by a stack of national and international newsprint.

“We?” enquires John in surprise.

Kate makes a show of adjusting her glasses and reads: “‘Tour de France prologue inspires record audiences as British rider risks all for yellow.’ Excellent use of alliteration, I’d say. But it gets even better. The massive headline reads: ‘No Shit, Sherlock.’”

She shushes the rest of the team as they break out in well-meaning chuckles. Next to John, Sherlock sighs audibly. John is sure he is also rolling his eyes.

Kate continues, “‘Time trial wonder S. Holmes and Tour veteran J. Watson: The new Dream Team?’ That’s right under a photo of you two with John’s arm around Sherlock’s shoulders, looking all cosy and sweet. Well done, boys.”

She smiles at them, looking genuinely pleased. John, however, isn’t. “I didn’t have my arm around him,” he splutters indignantly. “I was rubbing his back so he could breathe properly. Can’t one look after a teammate anymore without the press and everybody implying things that aren’t there?”

Kate exchanges a glance with Irene, who shrugs. “Sure, John, whatever you say,” she quips, and leans over to kiss Irene on the cheek.

John glares at both of them. Most of the others are grinning, or nodding knowingly. What are they implying? He _was_ just helping a teammate. He isn’t interested in Sherlock, despite the man being undoubtedly fascinating ( _and attractive, admit it, Watson, he is – shut up, I’m not gay)._ They’re teammates. They’re roommates. That’s it. The two women may be queer, and so comfortable with it that they flaunt it for the world to see. But John isn’t, particularly not the latter. As for the former ... the jury is still out on that one, at least that’s what he keeps telling himself.

“It’s not what you think,” John hisses, frowning at the assembly, before, with some finality, he spins round to the buffet and starts to heap pasta onto a plate.

From the corner of his eye, he catches Sherlock’s expression as the man moves next to him to study what’s on offer for breakfast. It’s the usual: cereal, fruit, several kinds of bread and pastries, smoothies, Nutella and other high-calorie spreads, and the ubiquitous pasta John knows he’s going to loathe by the end of the Tour without really seeing what’s in front of him. But Sherlock doesn’t really take it in. His eyes flick over the buffet without focus. Sherlock looks strangely ... hurt. It’s undeniably there in the way his lips are pressed together, how he holds himself. However, as soon as he become aware of John watching him, his usual mask of indifference and haughty disdain is down again.

Nevertheless John is certain of what he saw, and that his words were the reason Sherlock looks so unhappy. It makes him wish he could unsay them. He doesn’t want to join the ranks of those arseholes who’ve hurt Sherlock all his life, making him into the outwardly cold creature he presents to the world. John has been allowed glimpses of the real Sherlock Holmes – a privilege, he is certain, which could easily be withdrawn – and truth to tell, he enjoys spending time with Sherlock.

  

**– <o>–**

 

Just this morning, in the privacy of their room, he thought they’d reached a new level of ease around each other. They woke up at around the same time. Sherlock looked ... adorable, actually. Tousle-haired, the pattern of the pillow-fabric imprinted on his cheek, his eyes without their usual laser-focus. He was rumpled and dishevelled, his sharp edges softened. John could tell he was slightly sore from the prologue, despite massages and adequate sleep – apparently, Sherlock had refused any painkillers, perhaps because of his history with substance abuse. John’s “Good Morning” was met with a grunt and a shuffle to the bathroom. They took turns to use the toilet, and then, by unspoken agreement, as if they had been doing it all their life, brushed their teeth and shaved standing side by side. John ribbed Sherlock about the fact he was actually shaving with an ancient looking blade instead of an electric razor, the posh git.

“So, do you use it on your legs as well?” teased John.

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow in acceptance of the challenge, then lifted his leg to the sink to present skin still smooth from yesterday’s shave. “Of course. Much better – and more sustainable – than your disposable razor, since of course you can’t use your electric one in the shower. It does require skill, otherwise shaving with this blade easily becomes a small massacre.” He pointed at a faint scar near his ankle before lowering his leg again.

“But then of course you could go in for the full beauty treatment and have your leg-hair removed by experts,” he continued. “Several riders in the peloton have opted for either waxing or sugaring, or, in one case, laser therapy.”

John burst out laughing. Of course Sherlock would be able to spot details like these. “Who?”

“Wilkes, for example, and half of his team. Moran has had his chest and shoulders treated.”

“How on earth did you see that when he had his kit on?”

“He was shifting uncomfortably during the team presentation, and flinched slightly when one of his teammates clapped him on the shoulder, which indicates waxing at too high a temperate causing skin irritation, even minor burns. Moreover, I happen to remember a video of him from last year before he subjected himself to this strict beauty regime. During a mountain stage he had opened his jersey, and looked rather like that Kelme rider years ago, the one who could have been mistaken for a grizzly.”

John laughed. “God, yes, I think remember that fellow. Was it Botero? I always wondered how he survived these hot and sweaty stages in Southern France with his extra layer of insulation. So, Moran is into waxing? How interesting.”

“I could list a number of others. Some are quite vain.”

John snorted. “Says the man who has lined up three – no, four – hair-products in this very bathroom.”

Sherlock glared at him, but without anger. Unless John was completely mistaken, his roommate was enjoying himself as much as John. “Shut up.”

John finished shaving and began to gather his toiletries into his bag. “Well, at least you don’t talk about people’s weight all the time,” he said. At Sherlock’s questioning glance, he elaborated, “It’s not so bad in this team, but I’ve had teammates who wouldn’t shut up about it. How many calories they’d consumed each day, how much weight they’d lost for the Tour, how they managed to deny themselves foods and drinks they enjoyed during racing season and in preparation for it ... you know, all that stuff. They were worse than those usually associated with being obsessed with weight loss and dieting: teenagers and body-builders and supermodels.”

“Well, retaining an appropriate weight is helpful for a cyclist, especially for a mountain specialist. You’d want to shed every gram that isn’t muscle and actually helps you cycle.”

“Yes, that’s true. But a even a cyclist’s weight should still be healthy – at least at the start of a race like the Tour, because you lose so much during it.”

Sherlock scanned John’s figure, which sent a trickle of ... something down his back. “Strictly speaking, neither of us has a healthy weight, John,” stated Sherlock matter-of-factly. “Both of us are underweight. It’s less extreme in you because of your stature and height, but most physicians would tell you to gain two stone or more. As for me, I have always been slender, but lost body mass when I began training for this race last year.”

John nodded. Of course Sherlock was right. During a race a rider’s calorie intake is huge, between five and seven thousand depending on the difficulty of the stage. It’s so much, in fact, that riders often struggle to account for the required calories by eating alone, because digesting all this food gets difficult for the body to handle, stressed as it is already. Heavy foods that put a strain on the digestion mustn’t be consumed, but a stomach can only take so much of lean meat and fish, or pasta dishes. Therefore, drinks are fortified with extra carbohydrates for energy, and protein to repair muscle damage. Riders are encouraged to eat as much as they can stomach at breakfast, during transit to the start, during the start, immediately after the stage to quickly refill depleted glycogen stores, and in the evening. Team Speedy’s has a special chef, Mrs. Turner, who travels with them and who whisks up tasty, nutritious meals that appeal even to people who’ve already had two helpings of pasta and cereal in the morning. In the early days of a stage race, being required to eat so much can be bliss, because between races one has to watch one’s weight. It means being on a diet all the time – and John looks forward to a less strict regime once he’s retired. But he knows that in a week or two, he’d prefer to be allowed to eat less, and dreads indigestion and stomach aches that come with the increased intake of energy gels and isotonic drinks.

John wondered whether Sherlock had a nutritionist overseeing his training. How difficult had it been for him to regain his race-weight? Actually, what had he been up to all those years in between his two Tours? Had he worked in a different profession? If yes, what? What would a man as peculiar as him do to for a living? Had he married, raised a family, even? But then, he doesn’t seem that type, at all. And his strange comment about never having shared a room before ... No ring, either. So not married. _Even if it is somewhat sneaky and stalkery, I must look him up online,_ thought John.

“Did you cycle a lot during those years you didn’t participate in any races?” he asked.

Sherlock gazed at his reflection in the mirror and inclined his head. “Almost every day. It helps me think, or rather, helps me control my thoughts. It gives me peace.”

John nodded to himself. “I know what you mean. Anyway, I’ll leave you in peace now so you can devote all your brainpower to styling your hair. Wouldn’t want our yellow boy to look all dishevelled and out of sorts today, would we?”

Narrowly, John avoided the towel Sherlock flung at him.

 

**– <o>–**

 

“... orange juice?”

“What?” John startles out of his reverie, to realise he has been standing at the breakfast buffet staring into space for what must have been a while. Harry Lyons has materialised next to him, looking at him with a hint of worry.

“I asked if you could pass me the orange juice,“ he repeats. “You okay, John?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine. Here’s the juice.”

Harry nods while still looking a little doubtful. “They were just teasing, you know how they are,” he says in a low voice, nodding in the direction of their teammates. Sherlock, John sees when he follows Harry’s gaze, has found a seat next to Mrs. Hudson away from the rest and is digging into his food while reading something on his phone. John is relieved to see him eat with gusto after his small and insufficient breakfast the previous day. Apparently, he is taking nutrition more seriously now, after almost fainting from lack of it yesterday.

John watches him as secretly as he can without Sherlock noticing. He feels he needs to apologise to him, even though he isn’t sure what for. He hopes he’ll have an opportunity to talk to him later when they change and finish packing their bags up in their room. Sherlock completely ignores him – and the rest of his surroundings, such as Mrs. Hudson’s friendly chatter – when John takes his food back to the table and sits down with Harry and Stephen. John sighs softly and begins to eat, despite his stomach feeling tense and heavy of a sudden.

 

**– <o>–**

 

Sherlock has already packed and vacated the room when John returns. He curses under his breath. Of course, Sherlock will be required to endure a few more interviews this morning before the start of the stage. A host of reporters set up camp in the lobby at the crack of dawn, eager for a scoop. Quickly, John changes into his cycling gear. Somebody has already prepared his bib shorts with Vaseline to prevent chafing. John spares a thought for the poor person who has to wash his and his teammates’ clothes after a stage. Some are quite a state: dirty and almost stiff with sweat, stained with Vaseline and sunscreen, and sometimes with blood if there’s been a crash.

John applies a generous helping of sunscreen and uses the toilet one last time. Then he packs his remaining things and heads down to meet the rest of the team. Like yesterday, there won’t be any bus transfer to the starting area because it’s conveniently close to the hotel. The riders are going to commence today’s stage at Trafalgar Square, and then head down the Strand towards the City and the Tower of London to warm up. On Tower Bridge the race will start in earnest. The stage will take them through Greenwich and the south-eastern boroughs of London into Kent, and on to Canterbury, where the finish, due to the layout of the city, will be on one of the major roads instead of the small streets in the shadow of the famous Cathedral. John knows he should try to enjoy the stage. Particularly the route through London which is going to be packed with onlookers again, even more than yesterday because it’s a Sunday and the weather is brilliant, and a Brit is riding in the yellow jersey.

But this very man appears to be avoiding John because the latter’s been a prick, and there won’t be any chance to talk and set things right before they reach Canterbury in about six hours’ time, or not even then. John remembers what Sherlock said about distractions. Is Sherlock going to be distracted? Or has he simply deleted John’s words, blocked them out to concentrate on the race. And what exactly has John said to make him look so hurt? John knows his thoughts are going to return to the strange situation at breakfast again and again while on the road today.

“Fuck this,” he tells Sherlock’s unmade bed as he leaves the room. In the lift, another thought strikes him and makes his stomach knot once again. What if tonight they won’t be roommates again? What if this was just for London. Tonight they’re going to be staying in Dunkirk, over in France. What if Sherlock complained and got himself a single room? Greg suggested it could be arranged.

_Get to Canterbury first, worry about that later. Perhaps you’ll manage to talk to Sherlock on the bus, or on the ferry from Dover. For now, act professional, Watson. There’s a stage ahead, and you’ll be required to work for your teammate so that he’ll still be in yellow by the end of the day. Nothing else matters right now._

**– <o>–**

 

Sherlock continues to ignore John when they sign up for today’s stage, confirming John’s fears that there is some contention between them. Sherlock is his aloof self, looking splendid in yellow, tall and cold and unapproachable. Several of the press learn this first hand when they try to snatch interviews right at the start. So does Victor Trevor when he, Sherlock, and Kit in the white jersey are asked to pose for photographs and sign a few jerseys and other memorabilia to give away to charity. John watches Sherlock glare at Trevor through his sunglasses, exuding cold disdain like vapour, now and again voicing a dig at his fitness. Trevor isn’t any better, John can tell that the two of them are not just vexing the press, but also irritating poor Kit so much that he comes to complain to John when they arrange their bikes next to each other for the group start.

“What the heck is going on with these two? They wouldn’t smile, wouldn’t look at each other, would barely sign that flag together in an orderly manner. Trevor overwrote Sherlock’s signature, and then Sherlock struck out his on the next item. Why are they behaving like silly schoolboys? I was fully expecting either of them to draw a dick under the other’s name.”

John burst out laughing at this. “Oh God, just imagine that. I’m sure Sherlock’s drawing would have been anatomically correct, given how he pays attention to detail. A drawing like that would have made the item absolutely unique. But I get your point. They really are annoying like this. I hope they’ll get the chance to sort things out between them soon.”

“Yeah,” muses Kit darkly. Then, as if a switch has been turned, he lights up, grinning broadly. “Anyway, it’s a great day, there are thousands of people on the road. And I’m in the fucking white jersey? Still can’t believe it. I barely got any sleep last night because messages and notifications on twitter and instagram kept coming in. Can’t get any better, can it?”

“You just enjoy this stage, Kit, and your time in white. Never mind those two idiots,” John advises him as he fastens his helmet. So apparently Sherlock isn’t just troubled because of him, but his old ... whatever Victor Trevor is, or was. Striking out his signature ... how very mature. And how very like Sherlock.

Kit grins at him. “Yeah, I will. You, too, John.”

John stares at Sherlock’s bright yellow jersey a few rows ahead of him and worries his lower lip with his teeth. “Thanks.”

 

**– <o>–**

 

The race feels more like a holiday ride until the peloton reaches Tower Bridge. As John expected, the streets are lined with people several rows thick, the atmosphere is even more cheerful and supportive than during yesterday’s prologue. It’s absolutely marvellous, and lets him forget his worries for a while. The peloton slows down while crossing the bridge. John looks up at the towers and the huge steel beams, a TV-helicopter hovering over them. Then he casts a glance over the river, which is thronged with small boats. People are waving from them. John and a great number of riders wave back. 

And then they’re across the bridge, and both hands are required at the handlebars, because now the race begins in earnest. Almost as soon as the signal sounds, the first attempts at escape are made by single riders and small groups. Most are caught almost immediately by the peloton again, but some manage to gain a bit of a head start. This was expected. John has been in countless breakaway attempts over the years, some successful and many not. He isn’t worried about a few riders sprinting away. Most will be eaten up by the peloton sooner or later. This is a flat stage, perfect for sprinters, meaning that those teams with sprinters in their rows will try to control the size of the gap, and increase the speed of the main group should the escapees get too far ahead. 

Team Speedy’s task is to defend Sherlock’s yellow and Kit’s white jersey, and hopefully position them so that at the end of the stage, they arrive with the sprinters so as to keep their lead in their classifications. Bringing Stephen and Harry in a good position to sprint to either win the stage or at least gather points for the green jersey would be an additional bonus.

The peloton has left Greenwich and is approaching London’s Green Belt when the many small, mostly solitary breakaway attempts coalesce into something more coordinated and potentially more dangerous for Team Speedy’s. A group of seven riders has distanced itself from the peloton. Working together by taking turns of riding in the wind, their lead has quickly amounted to two minutes, and is increasing. The stage is long, more than two hundred kilometres in total, meaning a lead like this won’t worry Greg or Sally. Normally, an organised peloton interested in catching breakaways can gain a minute or more on them over the course of ten kilometres. They haven’t even reached Kent yet, so there’s no hurry.

The riders even use the fact that speed in the peloton is moderate at the moment to stop in places were there are no onlookers to take a leak. John rather mourns the fact that they’re not allowed to piss from the bike anymore. It saved time. On the other hand, he understands why it’s been outlawed. Bystanders were complaining, and since nowadays, official and private cameras tend to be everywhere, it’s prudent to looks for a sheltered spot to see to one’s business, instead of risking a fine by having one’s cock out on national and international television. Still, it does look funny when there’s a row of cyclists clad in colourful gear standing in an orderly row along a deserted stretch of road, pissing in unison. By an unspoken rule, the rest of the peloton doesn’t ride at maximum speed during these instances, so that those standing at the roadside can catch up quickly again.

Incidentally, John ends up standing next to Sherlock. As before, Sherlock ignores him, finishes quickly and mounts his bike again. John notices that he doesn’t have any water bottles left. Apparently he’s really learned yesterday’s lesson and is taking hydration more seriously now – as he should. It’s another dry, hot day today. Even though Sherlock could easily fall back and get himself new bottles from one of the team’s cars, John knows that one of his jobs is to provide a teammate placed so well in the GC with what they lack, be it food or drink, himself as a wind block to draft behind, or, in an emergency, his bike in exchange for his flat or damaged one. John’s still got two spare bottles stuffed into the back pockets of his jersey.

So when they’re both on the road again, John increases his speed to come level with Sherlock, wordlessly holding out a bottle to him. He isn’t sure because of the sunglasses, but Sherlock appears to be narrowing his eyes. His lips form the strange line again. He huffs out a breath, and takes the bottle, inclining his head as he takes a long draught.

“Want the other one, too?” asks John. “I’ve still got two on my bike, so I’ll be fine for a bit.”

Sherlock gives him a long glance, as if gauging John’s motives. He holds out his hand again. With a wry smile, John hands over the bottle.

“Need anything else? Energy bar, gel?”

Sherlock sniffs. “There is an official zone for stocking up on provisions,” he remarks, but it’s without rancour. He’s referring to a stretch of road designated for resupplying riders. Mike, Irene and the rest of the _soigneurs_ , the team’s therapists and other helpers will be waiting with the _musettes,_ small bags containing food and drink to be consumed on the road.

“Yeah,” returns John lightly, “but that’s after the first intermediate sprint, and that’s still miles and miles away. We haven’t even left Greater London yet, even though the landscape looks nice and green(ish) for a change. Come on, you’re the man in yellow – that’s why this camera motorcycle is riding alongside all the time, by the way. I’m one of your _domestiques_ today, an underling for you to command.”

Another long, strange glance is directed at John, followed by a frown at the camera, as if Sherlock notices it for the first time. At least they didn’t film him while he was taking a leak. “Is that so?” 

“Yes, you berk. Bar or gel?” 

“Bar, then.“ 

“Coming up.”

“Thank you.”

John nods to himself, wondering whether he should bring up what happened this morning. But now that he’s reminded himself of the cameraperson on the motorcycle, no doubt broadcasting their interaction to the world, he decides against it. Whatever the dratted reporters – and indeed some of John’s and Sherlock’s teammates – thought they saw in yesterday’s photos, it’s not like that. It isn’t. Sherlock is John’s teammate, and John is just looking after him as any good _domestique_ would. _Yep, and that’s why you made sure your hands touched when you handed him the energy bar. Nicely played, Watson. Good job. Keep deluding yourself, like you did with James._

They have reached the end of the peloton again, which is still riding at moderate speed – a wise decision given the heat. It’s early afternoon now, and the asphalt unbelievably hot. The wind, which isn’t strong, is coming from a south-easterly direction. This means that the riders will be facing a head wind all the way down to Canterbury, making coordinating who leads and accordingly rides in the wind all the more important so as not to wear oneself out too soon. Drafting in the peloton’s slipstream, on the other hand, is fairly comfortable and takes decidedly less effort. It does, however, require concentration, particularly when roads are narrow, bends and roundabouts are to be navigated, and the riders are riding closely together. The danger of touching another rider’s rear wheel with one’s bike and thus causing a crash in a tightly packed group is always present. It takes practice to ride in a peloton. John wonders how it must be like for Sherlock, who hasn’t ridden in a group this size for a long time. He seems to be managing well, however, riding his road bike as elegantly and efficiently as his time trial machine.

John is digging in his back pocket with one hand to fish out another bar for himself when his ear-piece crackles. Next to him, Sherlock tenses and looks up, too, hearing the same announcement. 

“John, Sherlock, get yourselves to the head of the peloton right now,” Greg’s tinny voice urges them. “There’ve been some developments ahead. While you were taking a leak, the breakaway group has increased its lead. It’s still more than manageable, so no problem there. However, you may have noticed that on that last hill in Greenwich, Victor Trevor put in a boost and managed to actually sprint away from the peloton to try and catch up with the leading group. He’s got Girotti – Super Mario – as a helper. Another rider from Team Selters has joined them. By now, they’ve almost reached the group at _tête de la course._ They’re expected to merge in Dartford, meaning the escape group will be ten riders strong.”

Sherlock curses under his breath. John signs to him to follow in his lead as he weaves a way through the peloton to reach the rest of their teammates near the head. “It’s possible that Trevor simply wants to snatch sprint points during the intermediate sprints to secure the green jersey. Make it his own, you know, so that he won’t just be wearing it because Sherlock can’t wear yellow and green at the same time,” goes on Lestrade. “But he may also try to gain yellow, given that Sherlock’s lead isn’t that substantial. This means eyes peeled, gentlemen. The breakaway group’s lead isn’t dangerous yet, but make sure you’re in a position to react should it grow. There are three category four climbs ahead, and the wind is forecast to stay the way it’s now. Be prepared to work the peloton. The sprinter teams are aware of the threat Trevor poses for our yellow jersey, meaning they’ll poker high and won’t do any work until the last minute, which may be too late for us. Sally and I will keep you informed. Make sure to eat and drink enough. It’s gonna be a tougher thing than expected once we’ve reached Kent.”

John exchanges a glance with Sherlock, who looks grim and determined. John can’t help a small, tight smile, too. Victor Trevor is not going to divest Sherlock of yellow so easily, however shrewdly or riskily he’s been conducting this stage.

 

**– <o>–**

 

The breakaway group seem to be working together well, increasing their lead on the peloton until it has reached almost seven minutes. Trevor wins the first intermediate sprint, flying across the bridge over the river Medway, having been brought into a good position by his helper, Girotti, and thus gaining three points. He comes third in the second intermediate sprint, snatching another point. By that time, Team Speedy’s as well as some of the sprinter teams have increased speed in the peloton so that the breakaway group’s lead has melted considerably. It’s unlikely now that they’re going to make it all the way to the end of the stage as an intact escape group, given that the stretch to Canterbury is still long, and moreover contains a number of climbs in the High Weald, some of which are even categorised (if only as fours, the lowest of the climb categories) and thus yield points for the mountain category.

Lestrade keeps up a constant stream of information concerning the lead group. Now and again, a motorcycle drops back to the peloton, the rider on the back seat holding up a sign on which the time difference has been written in chalk – a tradition that hails back to when there was no radio communication, and teams and single riders had to rely on their guts to decide which tactic to use. Many people call for a return to those basic methods to make races more interesting, but if he’s honest, John wouldn’t want to ride without Greg’s or Sally’s voice in his ear. It increases safety, because riders can be warned about obstacles on the road or crashes via radio, and even though it may curb riders’ personal initiatives, it makes racing more of the team effort it ought to be.

The peloton has left the Weald and has just passed the third intermediate sprint in the small town of Tenterden, the points of which were once more awarded to the lead group, Trevor snatching another two for coming second, when Greg informs his riders that the lead group has split up. Trevor, Girotti and two others have launched an attack, the other six riders have fallen back, with one trying to catch up with the four ahead but failing. By the time the peloton reaches Ashford, it has swallowed up the six weary breakaways. They won’t have any say in the outcome of the stage anymore. They did, however, spend some time in the spotlight and the attention of the cameras, which for many riders, particularly _domestiques,_ can be a career boost. John, who has spent countless hours on breakaway attempts such as this one, knows how one’s popularity increases when one’s a constant on TV-screens due to the extra exposure a breakaway provides. Doubtlessly, that’s partly what Victor Trevor is banking on as well today. He and his three companions are still going strong, maintaining a punishingly high speed in their diminished group to hold the peloton at bay.

“I’m calling it now, he’s going to launch another attack on the last climb at Farthing Common,” says Greg, “to get rid of the Selters’ chap and Stapleton of Team Baskerville who’s clearly aiming for the white jersey today. Farthing Common is only twenty kilometres from the finish. If Trevor keeps the 2:20 lead he’s got now, you won’t catch him. This means revving up the speed, gentlemen. Narrow his lead to under one minute to be on the safe side. Try and catch him before Canterbury. There’s a roundabout just before the _Flamme Rouge._ Things are gonna get hot at this point, with a high chance of a crash. Get the sprinter teams’ help to push up speed in the peloton. It should be in their interest as well, particularly in Team CAM’s. Morstan won’t win green if he wins the stage, but he can move to second position. Keep in mind there’s a time bonus to be gained at the end of the stage, so even if Trevor crosses the line a second before Sherlock but manages to win the stage, he’ll end up in yellow. And we don’t want that, do we, eh, Sherlock? Also, Kit’s white jersey is on the line if Stapleton makes top three.”

Despite the heat and freshening wind chipping away at their reserves, as they draw closer to the Channel, Team Speedy’s do as they’re told. At times, even Sherlock himself takes the lead of the peloton, exposing himself to the wind while setting a punishingly high pace. The breakaway group’s lead melts like ice in the sun, despite Trevor trying to increase its speed as well, riding in front instead of drafting behind his _domestique_ Girotti, as would be prudent to conserve energy for the last stretch. He does seem desperate to win this stage, as desperate as Sherlock is to catch him. It almost feels like a team time trial with Sherlock and his teammates chasing after Trevor and his companions, each rider spending a short period in the wind and giving his all, to then be overtaken by a teammate and dropping back to draft behind the others until it’s his turn in the wind again. Occasionally, riders from other teams will help out, but they’re only doing the bare minimum, happy to leave Team Speedy’s to do the main work and wear themselves out. Hopkins, Gregson and Dimmock take over the main work, with Anderson and John helping out while Sherlock, Kit, Bainbridge and Lyons only take short turns in the wind. The former two are spared because of their position in the general classification, the latter two because they’re sprinters, and subsequently positioned to attempt a stage win today.

As expected, Victor Trevor launches another attack at Farthing Common, leaving Girotti and the Selters’ rider behind on the steepest stretch of the climb. Stapleton manages to cling to his rear wheel for a while during the descent from the last hill, then drops back as well once they’ve reached the flats, unable to match Trevor’s time trial honed speed. Despite his efforts, however, Trevor’s lead decreases constantly, mainly due to the combined efforts of Teams Speedy’s, CAM and Brook Consulting, who have now joined the fray and doing their bit for keeping speed high in the peloton, which consequently has been pulled into a long, drawn out line, almost a single file, instead of a huddled group. When there are ten kilometres to go, Trevor’s lead has narrowed down to twenty seconds. Stapleton has long vanished in the main field. Two other breakaway attempts have been stalled. On the next long, even stretch of road, Trevor can be seen ahead, a small, solitary figure accompanied by one of his team’s cars and the camera motorcycle, as well as the helicopter hovering overhead. As the distance decreases even more, the team car is told to drop back to make space for the imminent capture of the escapee.

Trevor doesn’t give up, however, and manages to keep a ten second lead until he reaches the outskirts of Canterbury. Only then he finally accepts defeat and drops back into the peloton. After so long in the wind, even a strong rider like him won’t have resources left to take on the sprinters, rested as they are after having ridden two hundred kilometres in their teammates comfortable slipstream. As Lestrade anticipated, after the last roundabout has been navigated and the _Flamme Rouge_ is in sight, the sprinter teams begin to jostle to place their fast men near the front. Harry Lyons manages to get Team Speedy’s main sprinter Bainbridge into a good position as they speed towards the finish, to the crowds’ deafening cheer to both sides of the road. John stays close to Sherlock who doesn’t sprint, only tries to avoid getting caught in a crash. Sprint finishes are notorious for those because of the high speeds and often rough and aggressive cycling of some of the riders.

 

**– <o>–**

  

There is no crash this time, thankfully. The stage ends in a photo finish, to be decided between Mark Morstan of Team CAM, and Team Speedy’s very own Stephen Bainbridge. Eventually, Morstan is awarded the stage win, Bainbridge comes second, and a sprinter from Spanish team Telefonica third. There are no substantial changes in the general classification because most of the peloton arrives within seconds of each other, and the time bonuses of ten seconds for the stage win, six for second place and four for third go to the sprinters, all of whom are positioned somewhere in the middle of the GC and don’t really benefit from them. Because he has gained sprint points during the intermediate sprints, Victor Trevor now leads in the points category and gets to keep the green jersey on his own merit now. Morstan and Bainbridge are now potential candidates of taking the green from Trevor should they continue to do well during the next couple of stages, which are all flat and geared towards sprinters. Sherlock remains in yellow, thus adding a second stuffed lion to his growing pride, and Kit gets to keep the white jersey. Mario Girotti of Trevor’s team is awarded the polka-dot jersey because he collected the most mountain points along the route. In addition to his green jersey, Trevor is awarded the red race number for the most combative rider because of his constant attacks in the breakaway group and long solo ride. 

Soon after the award ceremonies, the inevitable drugs tests and interviews, the teams prepare for the transfer to Dover and then on to France via ferry. Most riders dislike transfers of this kind. It’s far more convenient, of course, to simply return to one’s hotel after a stage. Now, showers and massages as well as important refuelling of depleted energy and hydration levels has to take place on the team bus. It doesn’t help that it as well as the rest of the massive caravan of the Tour de France ends up stuck in traffic jam on the A2.

“Guess they’ve started turning this motorway into a car park already,” jokes Mike while kneading John’s tired legs.

“For Brexit, you mean?” John wants to know.

Mike shrugs. “Yeah. Given the chaos negotiations are stuck in at the moment, they expect long queues should there be a hard one and we crash out of the EU without any deals. What a fucking mess. Guess something like this year’s Tour wouldn’t be possible next year. Starting in London and all that. It was grand, though, wasn’t it?”

John nods and smiles. “Yes, it was. The crowds along the route were marvellous. They’d put up bunting and everything in some of the towns and villages we passed through today, and people were barbecuing along the road. Oww.”

“Sorry, mate. Knee playing up again?”

“It’s okay. The modifications Sherlock suggested were really good. I should have changed the height of my saddle ages ago.”

“He is rather good with these things, isn’t he? Weird chap, but good at what he does.”

Mike nods to where Sherlock is sitting a few rows ahead, already showered, massaged, watered and fed. John can only see the back of his curly head. He seems to be listening to something on his phone again, oblivious to his surroundings. As before, Sherlock dealt with the inescapable interviews brusquely and expediently, enduring the yellow jersey ceremony with a stoic expression, and positively flinched when the two women on the podium descended upon him to kiss his cheeks. John overheard some remarks from some riders that Sherlock doesn’t seem to appreciate the yellow jersey the way he should, that it’s wasted on him. They didn’t see, however, that when Sherlock was about to climb into the bus, he was approached by some cycling fans, mostly children _._ Obviously surprised at first, he nevertheless took his time to sign some of their items and even pose for a few selfies. John recalls feeling strangely warmed watching the scene, because even though Sherlock did his best to hide it and not smile too much, he was touched by the children’s admiration. A small girl with Harry Potter glasses and an eye-patch underneath them, probably to correct a squint, seemed afraid to approach him, half hiding behind her mother’s legs. Sherlock was surprisingly gentle with her, talking to her soothingly and kneeling down so he wasn’t towering over her, patiently answering her halting questions. He even gave her his newly won lion toy, to her absolute delight. _What a big softie you are. You hide behind this hard, almost impenetrable shell, to protect yourself, no doubt, but inside you’re all mushy,_ thinks John, before feeling a stab in his chest. Yes, Sherlock is soft inside, so soft he can be hurt. And even though they worked together well today, John still feels he has to talk to him, and apologise for what happened at breakfast.

Realising that he has been staring at Sherlock, John snaps back into himself and reaches for his bottle. “Yes, he is,” he agrees.

Mike continues to ramble about Brexit and other topics. John mostly tunes him out, trying to relax under his skilful hands. He is tired after the stage, but not completely exhausted. He hopes that things are going to be somewhat easier tomorrow, but has few illusions. As long as Team Speedy’s has a man in yellow, they’ll have to work keeping things that way. On the other hand, like this, they’ve already earned their keep by the time they reach the Alps, which takes some of the weight of having to win stages there off their shoulders. John wonders whether Sherlock will manage to hold onto yellow in the mountains as well. He did ride well there during his first Tour, but that’s over a decade ago. Perhaps not even Sherlock knows yet. The first real test will come in six days. And first they have to get there.

 

**– <o>–**

 

They reach the chartered ferry just in time. The large advertising caravan has already been shipped across on another boat, leaving this ferry for the teams’ buses and a host of team cars and other vehicles. _At least we won’t have to travel far once we’ve reached France_ , thinks John when he climbs the steep metal stairs from the car deck to one of the upper decks, his legs protesting vehemently. Most of the riders and other team members have drifted towards seating areas in the various bars and restaurants, happy to relax while watching stuff on their electronic devices, catch up on mail or news, or nap. A group of people from several teams have begun to play darts. Several others have vanished into the Duty Free shop.

John steers towards the afterdeck. The weather is still sunny and warm, but there’s a welcome breeze from the Continent. It ripples the waters and ruffles his hair as he steps outside. To his surprise, the deck isn’t as full as he expected. He soon learns why, because when the ferry casts off and takes up speed after navigating out of the harbour, the wind blows some of the diesel exhausts from the large funnels across the deck. Getting up from his seat with a sigh, John sets out to find a more sheltered spot near the port side of the ship. Dover’s white cliffs and the massive ferry terminal are getting smaller in the distance. In a way, it feels as if the two stages on UK soil have been a different race, and that the real Tour de France will begin tomorrow. Leaning on the railing with a sigh, John watches another ferry approach from the Continent, seagulls flying alongside because some children are feeding them. Below in the water, John spots several jellyfish, as well as a number of plastic bottles. The Tour de France and most other races still have a long way to go before they become sustainable, given the amount of waste they produce. He wonders whether anybody has ever counted the number of bottles each rider discards during a long stage race. At least in the case of the team bottles they’re not entirely wasted. Onlookers tend to pick them up eagerly. Some have fetched surprisingly high prices on Ebay in the past, depending on who used them.

Thinking of bottles, John realises how thirsty he is again. He has brought a bottle, but it’s empty already. Planning to doing the eco-friendly thing for once and simply have it refilled at one of the bars, he heads toward a door, only to notice that it’s blocked by Victor Trevor – and Sherlock Holmes. They look as if they’ve just run into each other accidentally. Sherlock is trying to squeeze past Trevor who has turned towards the bar, following the call of some of his teammates sitting there. When Trevor becomes aware of Sherlock, he freezes momentarily, before assuming a haughty expression. He’s taller than Sherlock, and by pulling himself up and standing very straight, he manages to look down on the other. John halts where he is, apparently unnoticed by either of the two, and watches.

“Well, well,” says Trevor, his voice a sneer coated by a thin layer of civility, “the nation’s new little favourite. Not sure yellow suits you, Sherlock.”

Sherlock stands taller as well. He sniffs. “At least you’re wearing the right colour now, Victor. Green for envy, and red for rage. How very appropriate, don’t you think? Apologies for having to rain on your parade today. But it was clear from the start that you wouldn’t win the stage.”

Trevor laughs coldly. “Oh Sherlock, Sherlock. That’s the Tour, in case you’ve forgotten what stage races are like.” He cocks his head, studying Sherlock condescendingly. “You really haven’t changed, have you? Do you still do that uncanny ‘deduction’ thing you used to freak everybody out with?”

“Oh yes.” Sherlock sounds undaunted. “Would you like me to have a go? I should warn you, though. You wouldn’t like some of the things I’d deduce about you.”

“Really? Such as? Unlike you, a former druggie, you won’t find me using anything, recreational or otherwise, if that’s what you’re on about.”

“Apart from your ‘asthma’ drug, right?” Sherlock even makes air quotes, further annoying Trevor who seems in a foul mood as it is.

“What are you implying?” he demands sharply.

“I’m not implying anything, Victor. I’m sure your ‘medication’ is all documented properly and approved by WADA, as it should be. Would you let me pass now? I feel I need some fresh air.”

Trevor glares at him, and leaning closer, he hisses, just loud enough for John to hear, “I don’t know what you’re playing at, Sherlock. You haven’t raced for more than ten years, and then suddenly decide you want to ride the Tour again? What’s really going on here? And what are you taking to be so fast?”

Sherlock has tensed upon the other leaning in, and is standing stiffly with his back against the doorframe. “I _trained_ to be fast, Victor. You should try it. It really helps. Also, even if I were taking anything, you’d be the last person I’d tell. You do remember what happened the last time, don’t you?”

Something fierce glints briefly in Trevor’s eyes. “Oh yes, I remember,” he says softly, “very well, in fact. You know, I should have gone public with it, I really should. Not just the drugs, all of it. You’d never be welcome in the peloton again. You’re a fucking freak, and always have been.”

Even though he tries to hide it, John can tell that the words hit Sherlock like a blow. He pales, his hands holding on to the doorframe behind his back grip hard onto the metal, his entire body tenses. But as quickly, he regains his composure. How often has he heard that word – or worse – being flung at him, John wonders. Sherlock swallows ever so slightly, but then bites back.

“Why didn’t you? Oh, I know. Because it would have exposed you as what you are, a liar and a hypocrite. Have you come clean to your girlfriend yet, or is it still your dirty little secret?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about. I’m no druggie like you. Nor am I queer. It wasn’t me who started it.”

“Yes, keep deluding yourself.”

“Be careful, Holmes.” Trevor’s voice is low and menacing.

“Or what?”

“Or you won’t reach Paris. You’ll be disqualified before that.”

“I wonder how you’re going to engineer that, without going home yourself.”

“Wait and see.”

John has had enough. Even though Sherlock has shown he can defend himself, John doesn’t like this talk about disqualification, and much less Trevor’s words of Sherlock not reaching Paris, which could imply some darker and more dangerous designs. Accidents happen all the time during a race like this. John doesn’t want to think about the additional perils if sabotage becomes an issue. 

Neither of the men seem to have noticed him, caught up as they are in their quarrel. Therefore, when John steps forward, Sherlock tenses again, probably wondering how much John has overheard. John decides to feign innocence. Stepping up to Sherlock, he claps his shoulder amicably.

“Ah, Sherlock, here you are. The team’s been looking for you.”

It’s rather fascinating to watch Victor Trevor’s face as his eyes flit from Sherlock to John and back again. Interestingly, Sherlock shifts a little closer to John. Jerking up his chin, he gives Trevor a broad yet utterly fake smile. “It was lovely chatting with you, Victor,” he says in his friendliest, most charming voice, “and reminisce about the good old times. I wish you a happy and successful Tour de France. I look forward to the time trials at Albi and Cognac. Do make sure you take your _medicine_ beforehand. Otherwise it wouldn’t be much of a competition.”

With a wink at a glowering Victor Trevor, he steps outside and follows John to the afterdeck. They end up at the port side railing, and suddenly, the awkwardness that has reigned between them ever since the morning is back. For a long while, they stand side by side, absently watching the choppy waves and the smoke from the funnels trail over the water. John feels he should say something, but he doesn’t know how to start. Is Sherlock angry about his interference? He casts a stealthy glance at the other as he stands, tall and still with only his curls moving in the breeze, his face unreadable, his light-grey eyes gazing at something far away, both hands on the taffrail, gripping the wood more tightly than is required to keep himself steady on the gently swaying ship.

When the silence becomes uncomfortable, suddenly Sherlock stirs and draws in a long breath. “It’s not what you think,” he says in a low voice.

John licks his lips. “You don’t know what I think?”

Sherlock shoots him a quick glance. “Actually, most of the time I do. You tend to be an open book, rarely hiding your emotions which are plain to read in your expression and bearing, or in the inflection of your voice. It’s the case with most people.”

“Oh yeah? What do you think I think, then?”

Sherlock sighs. “I know you overheard our conversation. The tension between Victor and me must have been palpable. Doubtlessly, you wonder what happened in the past to make us into enemies, when according to what you’ve been told by others and probably read online indicates that we used to be teammates, even friends. You understood that the contention between us exceeds professional competition by far, must therefore be based on personal issues, a falling out between people who used to be close.”

“Were you?” interrupts John before he can stop himself. “Close?”

Sherlock half turns to him and glances at him long and steadily. “I was deceived into thinking so, years ago,” he says as length, his voice even. “I misread the situation, and the signals Victor was sending. Neither of us are without fault in how things turned out, but in my defence I have to say that unlike him, I didn’t have relevant experience to base my actions and reactions on.”

“What happened?” Of course John has asked himself that very thing, repeatedly. On a sudden inspiration, he decides to attempt a shot in the dark. “He make it look like he fancied you, you acted on it, and he chickened out, making you look like an idiot?”

Sherlock stares at him in surprise, which looks rather comical. Then he swallows and casts down his eyes, a faint tinge colouring his cheeks, matching his sunburned nose. “I wouldn’t have put it that way, but basically yes.”

John gazes at him and nods slowly, swallowing as well. The situation sounds painfully familiar. “Sorry to have put it so frankly.”

Sherlock raises his eyes. Once again, his gaze is unreadable as he scrutinises his teammate. John can’t detect any malice in it, though. It feels as if, for the tenth or so time, Sherlock is sizing him up, trying to deduce his motives.

“Why are you doing this?” he asks at length, cocking his head slightly, his sea-grey eyes not leaving John’s face. His close attention is unnerving, even though he should be the one uncomfortable with their conversation, not John.

“Doing what?” John wants to know.

“Caring.”

“Who says I am? I could simply be trying to learn about your secrets to sell them to the press.”

“Indeed. But I know you aren’t. Whereas I could be the most obnoxious arsehole on the planet, and therefore not worthy of your repeated attempts at befriending me.”

John laughs at this. “You’re certainly giving pretending to be the world’s greatest arsehole a shot. Good one, too. But I have to inform you that for me, you totally ruined your act today.”

Sherlock raises an eyebrow, looking positively alarmed. “I did? When?”

“Oh, you were on top form with Trevor now, and whenever a reporter shoved a microphone into your face, you gave them hell. Unfortunately for you, though, I saw you with the kids.”

“When?”

“Before you were getting onto the coach. They loved you, and you were really good with them, particularly the little girl with the eye-patch you gave your lion to. She was completely over the moon. There was no press around, so it’s unlike you’d have done it as a publicity stunt. No ulterior motives, just you being yourself.”

The colour on Sherlock’s ridiculous cheekbones has intensified. He ducks his head and avoids looking at John, suddenly very interested in a speck of bird dropping on the taffrail. “Damn it, I thought nobody was watching,” he mutters. John sees a smile twitch at the corners of his mouth and crinkle the skin round his eyes. He smiles as well.

“I won’t tell anybody,” he tells Sherlock conspiratorially, bumping his shoulder lightly. “Neither the fact you can be sentimental and human if you choose to be, nor the thing with Trevor, whatever happened between you in the past. It’s not my concern, whether you’re gay or straight or ... whatever you are. It’s fine. It’s all fine.”

Sherlock turns to John, his expression stern of a sudden, his gaze keen and penetrating again. “Is it?”

John frowns, not understanding the sudden sharpness in his voice. He shrugs. “Yeah, ‘course it is. Each to their own. I know this sport, like so many, is pretty bad at accepting homosexuality as a normal form of human existence, but personally, I have no problems with it. My sister is a lesbian, and we get along well most of the time, as are Irene and Kate, my friends.”

Sherlock smiles wryly. His intense look doesn’t falter. “You mean it’s fine for other people.”

John’s eyes narrow. “What are you implying?”

“Well, given your particularly close ‘friendship’ with your former roommate James Sholto, and the fact that you are still traumatised by his accident because you blame yourself for it – or rather for being a cause of distraction for Sholto which lead to him losing concentration and crashing – as well as your overly defensive reaction to the therapists’ banter at breakfast this morning – and indeed your tense stance now – I’d say that you, ‘Three Continents Watson’, the successful ladies’ man, have a little secret you’ve managed to hide all those years you’ve been a professional cyclist.”

John stares at him in shock, before casting quick glances over his shoulders to both sides. People are milling around on the deck, but none are in overhearing distance. Nevertheless, John lowers his voice to a hoarse whisper when he hisses, “I’m not gay.”

Sherlock cocks an eyebrow. “Correct. That would, by the broadest definition of the term, be me. But you’re not straight, either, whatever you keep telling yourself.” He shrugs. “Anyway, as you said. It’s all fine.” He nods towards John’s empty bottle. “You should have that refilled. You’re dehydrated, and slightly hypoglycaemic, too. They have rather decent freshly pressed orange juice at the bar.”

John stares at him incredulously. “You’ve just come out to me, sort of, told me the most outrageous thing you’ve deduced about myself, and now you’re offering to buy me a drink?”

“I didn’t exactly offer to buy you one. I suggested you should get one. You look as if you need one. Non-alcoholic, of course. That said, I could do with something to drink myself.” He nods towards the small kiosk that has opened on the afterdeck. “Coming?”

He pushes off the railing and heads towards the kiosk. John watches him cross the deck, walking smoothly and elegantly despite the sway of the ship, his lithe figure clad in a tight, no doubt expensive dark-blue shirt and the pair of bespoke dark suit trousers he already wore the day before – _does he even own jeans or jogging bottoms?_ As annoying and potentially alarming as it is, of course Sherlock has been right. John isn’t straight. Not quite. Not when it came to James, and not during his mountain bike days. But admitting it, to himself and the world ... He isn’t ready for that, not by a long shot. Perhaps after he’s retired ...

And what about Sherlock, about his offhand remark that he is – or might be – gay? He was infatuated with Victor Trevor, that’s what he implied, right? For some reason (John assumes internalised homophobia and jealousy), things turned ugly between them. John thinks he can picture what happened. Sherlock, young and inexperienced, falls in love with Trevor, already a successful cyclist and certainly desirable company, who plays along as long as it’s convenient for him, and then shoots Sherlock down. Sherlock doesn’t know how to cope, probably overreacts. There is a falling out, drugs, bad press, the whole shebang. _Things with James could have gone down that route, too, had he not had that accident ..._

John stares at the dim line of the English coast on the horizon, now almost hidden in haze. He draws a deep breath, and turning his back to the view, walks across to Sherlock who has already ordered two orange juices, and a large Pepsi for John. Somehow, this gesture touches John, and he thanks Sherlock. They take their drinks back to their spot at the railing and stand leaning against it, sipping orange juice and not talking for a long time, watching the other people on the deck. Eventually, John draws a deep breath. “I’d like to apologise for this morning. I was a bit of an arse, I guess.”

“Yes.”

“You mean I was.”

“Of course.” Sherlock’s expression is straight and grave. He isn’t looking at John, but his mouth is twitching again.

“Git.”

“Such nice words, John. I thought you were trying to apologise.”

“I was. Honestly. But sometimes, you’re just ...”

“Only sometimes? I thought I was an arse most of the time.”

John thinks of the children, how the little girl clutched the lion toy to her chest and beamed, and the soft, sad vulnerability Sherlock displays at times.

“You’ll have to work harder at that. Or perhaps give it up altogether. Just be yourself.” He takes a sip of his drink, and changes the subject because there’s some commotion on deck. “What on earth are Wilkes and the van Coon brothers doing over there? And Henry Baskerville and his retinue.”

“Posing for photographs, obviously”

“For a fashion shoot, or what? Why are they dressed up like this?”

“Possibly. I could deduce the photographer and her team to determine which magazine they work for.”

John grins at him, his heart suddenly light which could be due to the sugar boost from juice and cola, but also from the fact that somehow, he and Sherlock seem to have navigated clear of the cliffs and icebergs that endangered their friendship because of John’s behaviour this morning, and seem to have reached a new level of trust and ease with each other. As John shoots a quick glance at Sherlock’s profile with his sunburned nose and weird chins and indecent lips and intense eyes and posh nose, all topped by windblown, tousled curls, he feels warmth suffuse him. He realises that he really, really likes this odd, outwardly rude but inwardly soft man, and that he doesn’t mind what Sherlock deduced about him, because he feels that his secret is safe with him.

“Oh yes, please do,” says John, sipping from his juice.

Sherlock flashes him a brilliant smile and begins.

 

**– <o>–**

 

They pass the remainder of the crossing on deck, and are soon joined by some of their teammates who listen in on Sherlock deducing the other riders, to general merriment. John can tell how Sherlock begins to relax when the others express wonder and appreciation instead of scorn at his extraordinary skill, how he preens and attempts to impress them. Team Speedy’s are in an excellent mood when they are ushered onto the coach again, where Greg and Sally brief them about tomorrow’s stage. It’s another flat one, from Dunkirk to Ghent in Belgium. Breakaway groups and a sprint finish are to be expected. Depending on the breakaway situation, Bainbridge is advised to try to gather sprint points en route, and of course win the stage, while the rest are going to have to work to keep Sherlock in yellow and Kit in white.

“Should be a piece of cake,” Sally tells them. “You’ve worked together well today. Keep up the good work, guys – and ladies, too.” She waves at Irene and Kate and Sarah, and Anthea who’s the team’s PR person. Molly and her team of mechanics are not on the bus but riding in the team’s cars that carry the bicycles.

 

**– <o>–**

 

The sun has already set behind the dunes of Grande-Synthe when they leave the ferry and are transported to their hotel, situated conveniently in the town’s centre not far from tomorrow’s point of departure. Kit is sitting next to John and gazing out of the window with a thoughtful expression. “Why does it look like a prison compound here?” he asks, nodding towards the high fences and increased police presence at the ferry terminal and the roads connecting it to the town.

John explains about the migrant situation in Europe. “It’s worse in Calais, a little way down the coast, I heard. There’s a large camp there called The Jungle. Conditions there are really bad, because nobody really feels responsible for those poor folks. I heard there are several smaller camps in this area as well.”

Kit shakes his head. “Why can’t they just let them cross over to England? I don’t get all that crap about the country being overrun by migrants. You just explained that most of those people are fleeing war and devastation in their home countries. And many are willing to work jobs you Brits won’t touch. So they’re needed, aren’t they?”

John shrugs. “I totally agree with you. But sadly, this entire debate has been fuelled by misinformation, and those behind it, behind all this Brexit mess, are right-wing arseholes who hope to win either financial or political power by supporting a cause they ultimately don’t believe in. They don’t care about the country or the population, but only for their own gain. If Brexit goes arse-up, as it will, those wankers will fall on their feet while the rest goes down the drain.”

He sighs. “They should remember what happened here in 1940, and some years later. Europe’s been at peace for over seventy years, and they are risking that.”

Kit watches the fences and nods. They fall silent. Soon, the fences are replaced by silos and large tanks of the petrochemical works that line this stretch of coast. John understands why people prefer the South of France. This _département_ , the Nord-Pas-de-Calais, a country of farms and fields and large industrial parks, particularly along the motorway that leads to the major ports connecting the Continent with the English Isles, is flat and unspectacular. Boring, the monotony only broken by the occasional wind turbine, water tower or church stile, John knows that tomorrow’s stage isn’t going to be a scenic one. But it’s short, about fifty kilometres shorter than today’s, so there’s that.

 

**– <o>–**

 

The hotel is decent, but offers few of the luxuries Team Speedy’s enjoyed at the Savoy in London. John is happy about a bed and an ensuite bathroom, and is looking forward to a good dinner conjured up by Mrs. Turner, the team’s chef and chief nutritionist. When John enters the room, the second bed is still unoccupied. Once again, worry gnaws at him. Perhaps Sherlock just hasn’t arrived yet. He went to talk with Molly and her team upon arrival, probably to give them feedback on the bike he rode today and request special modifications. Or perhaps ... perhaps he won’t be sharing with John tonight, nor the nights after. A knock sounds, the door opens – and John’s face falls when Greg steps inside, his bags in hand. He sees John’s expression and smiles a little sheepishly.

“Hey, John. Not who you expected, I take it. I hope you don’t mind sharing with me. It’s just ...,” Greg deposits his bags on the floor and rubs the back of his neck, looking embarrassed, “it’s just that Sherlock came to me this morning and asked for a single room. There wasn’t one available. I mean, all these rooms were booked months in advance, and all the hotels in Dunkirk and vicinity are pretty full now with the Tour stopping here. So I gave him my room. We’ll try to sort something out for tomorrow. But ... yeah.” He shrugs.

John schools his face as best he can to not let his disappointment show. “It’s fine, Greg, no worries. Which bed do you prefer?”

“I don’t care, really.”

“Right. I ... uh ... I’ll take the one next to the window, then.”

“Yeah, sure.”

Both men begin to busy themselves with unpacking, obviously to bridge the awkwardness. John really doesn’t mind sharing with Greg. It wouldn’t even be the first time. A few years ago, a pipe burst at a hotel they were staying at, forcing them to move to another place where they slept four men a room. But truth is John would have preferred Sherlock, especially because he thought that after their little heart-to-heart on the ferry and John’s apology, things were fine between them. Sherlock had demanded the single room this morning, so maybe things were in fact fine, but nevertheless Sherlock preferred the single ...

Lestrade clearing his throat pulls him out of his musings. “It ... ah ... it’s not my place to pry – come to think of it, actually it is, as your team manager and chief coach, you know what I mean – but did anything happen between Sherlock and you yesterday?”

John looks up at him sharply. “What do you mean?”

“Did you have a falling out? I know Holmes is a weird chap and quite ... special in his ways. But I had the impression you were getting along well yesterday. Or is it about that crap in the media?”

John sighs, running a hand thought his hair. “I said something at breakfast this morning I shouldn’t have. Didn’t expect it to bother him so much, but—”

The door swings open, causing both men to turn in surprise. Sherlock is standing outside, bag slung over his shoulder, his violin-case in one hand and an iPhone charger in the other. “Lestrade, I fear we have to switch rooms yet again, if you don’t mind. Apologies for the confusion.”

He marches into the room and deposits his luggage on the bed Greg has unpacked his bag on. Lestrade exchanges an irritated glance with John, who shrugs.

“What’s the matter, Sherlock?” asks Lestrade. “Don’t like the view in the single room?” he adds with the faintest hint of irritation.

“The view is all right if one likes brick. This is not the reason for the swap.”

The two men gaze at him expectantly.

Sherlock sighs, and actually has the audacity to roll his eyes. “All right, you require an explanation. See this?” He draws himself up, raises the charger and dangles it in front of their eyes. “UK plug.” He points at one of the power sockets near the door. “It won’t fit, obviously. I forgot to bring a continental charger. John has an iPad, making our devices compatible. He also has an adapter with two USB plugs. Ergo, it’s sensible we share a room. Here’s your key card, Lestrade.”

Lestrade stares at him, looking utterly flabbergasted, but takes the card. Eventually, he clears his throat. “I ... uh ... leave you to it, then, gentlemen. Glad this is settled. About the hotel in Ghent—”

“There won’t be any need for special arrangements anymore,” Sherlock assures him.

“Oh ... good. That’s good. So no more airs and graces from you, then?”

Sherlock sniffs. “I make no promises. But if I’m booked to share rooms with John, that’ll be fine.”

Lestrade looks from him to John and back and nods. “Excellent. Great to hear. Well ... see you at dinner, then.”

“Yeah, see you,” John says, quickly helping to repack Greg’s belongings.

As soon as he has closed the door behind him, John turns to Sherlock. “You forgot your adapter?”

Sherlock doesn’t look at him as he rummages in his bag, but John catches the faint tinge to his cheekbones that’s not caused by sunburn. “As I explained just now.”

“You could have bought one on the ferry, or the hotel could have provided one. I’m sure they have them here.”

“Yes, well, it slipped my mind.”

John laughs. “Oh really? Something actually slipped _your_ mind? Wow. And here’s me thinking that you overreacted this morning, because I think I really hurt you with my words. I apologise again, Sherlock. I really am sorry for what I said, or implied.”

Sherlock looks up from his bag. His gaze is keen, but there is warmth in it. He looks as if he’s fighting back a smile. “As long as I can use your charger, we’re fine.”

John picks it up and throws it towards him. “Here, you nutter.”

Sherlock catches the device deftly, and now he does smile. “You really have to work on your vocabulary, John. We’re in France now. The least I can expect are French insults.”

“Guess you’ll have to teach me first. No doubt a posh git like you speaks fluent French.”

“ _Oui, certainement_. And German, Italian, Spanish, Danish, and a bit of Russian. Oh, and Latin, of course.”

“Show off. What kind of school did you attend to learn all that?”

“Harrow.”

“Wow, really? That’s like Hogwarts, isn’t it?”

“A little, yes.”

John nods to himself while continuing to unpack. He expected Sherlock to come from a wealthy family. There’s a definite air of public school about him. But Harrow ... that really is posh.

“I got in on a scholarship,” explains Sherlock, as if reading his mind once again. “My parents aren’t that well to do as you no doubt assume. My brother had been there, too. Rose to head boy and all that. My parents thought I might fare better there than at a state or grammar school, given how ... unpopular I was with other children. They weren’t exactly right, but I did make my way eventually.”

“Can’t have been easy, with all those rich, snotty brats one would expect to attend a school like this, picking on all those who are ... different.”

Sherlock inclines his head. “It wasn’t,” he says, with some finality.

He closes his bag and shoves it into the wardrobe. “Dinner?” he asks, turning back to John, looking almost a tad bashful.

John grins, grabbing his phone and his key card. “Starving.”

Sherlock smiles. He holds open the door for John, and together they head down to the dining area.

 

__________

 

 


	4. Stage 2: 9 July, Dunkirk to Ghent, 168,5 km, Plain Stage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After a detour into the 1940s I’m back working on this story, which hopefully will update more regularly. To all those who are following this story and have been waiting for new chapters, thanks a lot for your patience. Thanks also, as always, to my brilliant beta rifleman_s for their services. 
> 
> This chapter contains mentions of cycling-typical injuries and their treatment. They’re not very graphic, but if this is something that bothers you, treat carefully.

The roads of Dunkirk are slightly damp from a brief rain earlier in the morning when the peloton sets out after noon. Unfortunately, the rain hasn’t lowered temperatures, but rather increased humidity in the air, making breathing difficult. It’s still very hot. The wind has changed direction somewhat and has died down. For the first stretch, heading inland into Belgium for about forty kilometres to reach Boezinge where the first intermediate sprint is set, the riders are going to enjoy a mild tailwind. Far away in the east, however, dark clouds can be seen on the horizon, threatening thunderstorms later on. The air is muggy, tinged with an acrid smell from the nearby petrochemical works. John is sure that all riders are happy to leave this area as soon as possible.

Since this is another flat stage, without even any category four climbs this time – the only ‘hills’ are going to be motorway overpasses today – early breakaway attempts are expected. The first is launched almost as soon as the peloton crosses the invisible border from France into Belgium. After some jostling of positions and a few switches at _tête de la course,_ a small breakaway group of three riders establishes itself. All are from teams that haven’t come to particular attention in the two earlier stages of this Tour, and are no danger for the general classification and thus Sherlock’s yellow jersey.

Victor Trevor isn’t among them this time, probably paying the price for yesterday’s long solo ride in the unforgiving wind. It gained him the coveted red number and some serious attention from the press and on social media, but John thought he looked tired and a little pained when he signed in for today’s stage and faced the press next to Sherlock, Kit, and the chap in the mountain jersey. Trevor completely ignored Sherlock, didn’t even look in his direction. Sherlock mirrored his behaviour. John thought it was for the best, to prevent any more bitchy encounters such as he witnessed on the ferry.

Even though Sherlock, too, seemed rather tired at breakfast despite falling asleep early the previous evening, John thought he was more relaxed, more inclined to talk to and on occasion even joke with his teammates, to show himself more open, particularly towards John. A new level of trust and ease around the other has developed between them, and John likes it. He likes Sherlock, and Sherlock, as much as this can be gleaned from his words and behaviour, appears to like John, too. Therefore, John is happy to work for him again today, playing _domestique_ by fetching provisions and water bottles, of which many are needed because of the high temperatures.

As expected, the landscape is boring: flat with barely anything to catch the eye, nothing but fields parched by the extraordinarily dry summer, industrial compounds, farms, meadows with cattle, the occasional small town or village. These, at least, provide some distraction, or even entertainment. The Tour is big in France and Belgium, meaning that as in the UK, people line the roads to watch and cheer the riders on. In some settlements, the inhabitants have created special displays to greet the Tour, some of which can only be seen properly from the air, and will be filmed by the helicopter crews that accompany the riders, to be broadcast all over the world. But often, the roads themselves have been decorated with the names of famous or particularly beloved teams or riders. Flags and bunting have been put up as well. Many people are have put tables and chairs outside and are picnicking along the route. In one town, the peloton is greeted by several large figures made from straw bales, dressed in yellow, green and polka-dot jerseys.

After the first intermediate sprint, the peloton heads north-westwards. This means headwind and more work. Although the breakaway is kept on a long leash with the peloton allowing them to build up a lead of almost six minutes, Team Speedy’s is still expected to control speed in the main group and not let the riders in front escape too far, because otherwise Sherlock’s yellow jersey will be gone by the end of the stage. Nevertheless, all in all, the average speed of today’s stage is fairly leisurely. John is glad. It gives them the chance to recover a little from yesterday’s hard ride, and also to conserve energy for the next stage. That one is going to be a real monster because it’s both the longest stage in this year’s Tour, and also contains several of the dreaded _pavés,_ cobblestone passages which are the horror of the annual Spring Classics set in Flanders and Northern France.

Luckily, another dreaded feature of the Spring Classics doesn’t make an appearance today. Even though the riders face a constant, gentle headwind as they head back towards the coast, the notorious crosswinds that can pull the peloton to shreds or into long echelons don’t materialise. The weather remains hot and muggy, with the sky getting more hazy even near the coast. The dark clouds grow in the east. After the riders reached Westende, the halfway point of the stage and the location of the second intermediate sprint, and head eastwards again, finally leaving the coast behind them, the smell of petrichor grows stronger the closer they draw towards the bank of cloud hovering over their destination of Ghent. The air’s humidity, combined with temperatures over thirty degrees Celsius, make for a sweaty, exhausting stage, particularly because now the peloton has to increase speed to catch the breakaways.

As on the previous day, Sherlock himself becomes a driving force in leading the field, enduring long spells at the head of the peloton, riding at his habitual high yet measured speed, like a clockwork, beautiful to behold. Several times, John rides directly behind him, waiting to take over and grant him a respite in his slipstream, and he finds he can’t take his eyes off him. Despite not riding in his specialty discipline, even on an ordinary bike Sherlock is a marvel to behold. To his faint alarm, John notices himself indulging in the view more often than he should. He recalls what Sherlock said about distractions during a stage. _Well,_ thinks John, _there is barely anything else of interest to see around here, and you, mate, are truly a sight for sore eyes._ Still, he makes sure he doesn’t get caught staring. Moreover, riding doesn’t get any easier as the stage progresses. The sun is increasingly hidden by haze which takes off its sting, but temperatures stay high. Humidity increases even more, if possible. John feels as if he is breathing water. His head begins to ache. He yearns for a draught of cool air, but even though they cycle at over 40 kmh, there is no wind-chill. He drinks and drinks and yet stays thirsty, or at least it feels that way.

There is a light tailwind again, which makes cycling easier, nevertheless it’s hard work for Sherlock and the rest of the team. Even though they try to relieve him as often as they can by taking turns in the wind, Sherlock rides at the front more often than he is strictly required to, obviously eager to keep up a high speed in the peloton. And the rest of Team Speedy’s follow his lead. Again they’re not just riding to keep Sherlock in yellow, but also to ensure a sprint finish which hopefully will lead to a stage win for either Bainbridge or Lyons. Most other teams are happy to leave the work to Team Speedy’s, who manage to decrease the lead of the breakaway group by about four minutes to just under two.

In the small town of Ichtegem, about sixty kilometres from Ghent, what initially looks like another breakaway attempt soon turns out to be a young Belgian rider on his first Tour sprinting away from the peloton to greet family and friends who are lining the road. He waves happily to them and blows a kiss to a woman with a baby on her arm, even picks up a Belgian flag to carry for a short stretch, before falling back again into the main field with a look as happy and content as if he has just won the stage. John admires him for his youthful enthusiasm. Here is someone simply enjoying this race, letting himself be celebrated in his hometown, its inhabitants no doubt proud to have one of their own riding in the world’s most prestigious cycling race. John reminds himself that this attitude, this attitude precisely, should be his as well. He should try to enjoy it more. It’s his last Tour, his last ride through Belgium in a peloton ... He looks around at his teammates, bent over their handlebars, sweating as they ride, and feels a deep stab in his heart. He’s going to miss this, he realises, miss it deeply. He can still keep up cycling, of course, after leaving this team. But it won’t be the same. The adoration of the masses, the company of his teammates, being part of the biggest outdoor sports event in the world. He’s never going to experience this kind of excitement of belonging again if he decides to hang up his professional cycling shoes after this race. Even the daily hardship, the months of preparation, the discipline ... he knows he is going to miss them, particularly because he still hasn’t got a real plan for what to do next. Cycling has been his life for so many years. _Well, perhaps you could start to cycle for fun instead. Stop when you want to, have a coffee and a pastry when you fancy. You could take up mountain-biking again, cycle off-road and enjoy the scenery without a clock ticking and Greg and Sally breathing down your neck. There are countless possibilities._ John simply has to choose one. And if he really can’t stay away from professional cycling, perhaps Team Speedy’s will take him on as another _directeur sportif_. Actually, this wouldn’t be altogether bad. John believes he would make a good coach, given his experience and his good rapport with his fellow teammates. It would mean not quitting cycling entirely. 

Encouraged by this thought, and putting in a small sprint, John takes over from Sherlock at the head of the peloton, smiling at him which earns him a frown from the other. Obviously, he has irritated him, because suddenly, Sherlock appears next to him.

“You seem awfully cheerful despite the less than ideal conditions today,” Sherlock calls to him.

John shrugs. “That young Belgian chap just reminded me that I promised myself to enjoy this race, heat and wind and sweat and all.”

“Because it’s your last Tour?”

“Yep. You disapprove?”

“Your decision, of course, but it seems awfully sentimental.”

“And you don’t condone sentiment, do you?”

“It’s the fly in the ointment, the puncture in your inner tube, the grit on the road that propels you out of the bend if you’re not careful. I try to shut it out and not let it rule my life, or, to take the grit analogy again, give it a wide berth with both hands on the brakes.”

John gazes at him and nods, recalling their private conversations, all the things Sherlock didn’t say outright but implied, the way he reacted to Victor Trevor’s taunts and insinuations, his gentleness around the children. _Yeah, mate, you’re totally above sentiment. You’re bottling it up, keeping a tight lock on your emotions. But sometimes, they just leak out, don’t they? Or you channel them into cycling. So keep deluding yourself that sentiment is for other people only. You’re as prone to it as the rest of humanity._

He finds Sherlock watching him keenly, his eyes only partly visible behind his tinted sunglasses. “You don’t believe me?”

“Not really, no.”

“Oi, you two,” Sally’s voice sounds through John’s earpiece – Sherlock, judging from his expression, is receiving the same message –, “would you please fall into line and have your little heart-to-heart some other time? Catching the breakaway is still touch and go, and you can’t afford to waste energy by riding in the wind side by side, like bloody newbies. Decide who’s turn it is, and that’s it. If you need more time for a chat, let Gregson, Hopkins or Dimmock take over for a bit. Or better, save it for when we reach Ghent. There is bad weather ahead. The forecast warns about heavy thunderstorms. So be careful. Once the roads are wet, things are going to get even more uncomfortable, especially as you approach the finish.”

John grins at Sherlock, who, to his surprise, smiles back. Never a moment of privacy, that’s the Tour de France as well. Obediently, they wave for Hopkins to take over and fall into line, but they don’t pick up their conversation again. Sherlock apparently remembers that he should eat something now and again, and John empties another water bottle, gratefully accepting a new one from Gregson who apparently still has plenty of spare ones tucked inside his jersey.

 

**– <o>–**

 

As Sally predicted, things take a turn to the uncomfortable about twenty kilometres later. By then, dark clouds have enveloped the sky from east to west. A not too distant roll of thunder announces what is imminent. _Better today than tomorrow_ , thinks John wryly when the first fat drops begin to fall, soon increasing into a veritable wall of water that drenches the riders to the skin in minutes. It makes the surface of the roads dangerous, because together with the layer of dust that has accumulated on the asphalt, the water creates a slick sludge. Still, better wet asphalt today than wet cobblestones tomorrow. The _pavés_ are carnage whatever the weather, but they get impossibly more dangerous when they’re wet. Most riders use special bikes with heavier frames for cobblestone stages, and tyres with deeper profiles and less air pressure than usual to ensure better grip and less vibration. Nevertheless there are lots of accidents on the _pavés,_ serious ones, too.

But this is something to worry about tomorrow. For now, it’s head down and on. John licks rain from his lips and tries not to wince when water from his rear wheel splashes up his arse and back, soaking shorts and jersey. At least Team Speedy’s outfits are mostly dark in colour, apart from Sherlock’s and particular poor Kit’s, whose white jersey has become entirely transparent, and all of them wear black shorts. White or pastel coloured cycling shorts are never a good idea, as evidenced by Teams Selters and Arla with their predominantly white – and now dirty brown and mostly transparent – kit.

The thunderstorm is violent but brief. For a while, audio communications are interrupted. When Greg and Sally are back online, Lestrade tells the riders that the helicopter had to land to let the storm pass, and that there was no TV-reception because the signals from the mobile cameras didn’t get through, or were scrambled by the electrostatic air. Greg urges on his men to force the peloton into greater speed, to close the gap between the main field and the breakaways before they reach the centre of Ghent. Eager to finish the stage and change into some dry clothes, Team Speedy’s obliges, with some of the other teams that aim for a sprint finish finally helping out. On the long, straight stretch into Ghent the escapees come into view, and despite several last ditch attempts at working together and making it to the finish as a breakaway, they are eventually swallowed up by the main field.

Therefore, the peloton hurtles into the last turn and onto the ring road as a tightly packed group, with the sprinters and their fast _domestiques_ already jostling for good positions. The roads are newly paved, the surface slippery due to the recent rain. There is no need for Greg and Sally to remind riders to not lose concentration now, because the combination of wet road, a dense, excited peloton, and a breakneck speed of over 60 kmh which is going to increase when the sprinters are giving their everything are a recipe for disaster.

It strikes in the vicinity of the _Flamme Rouge_ , with the finish and its large screens already in sight. John doesn’t know whose fault it is, he doesn’t even recall who exactly is riding behind him. But suddenly, his bike lurches when something touches the rear wheel, causing it to block for an instant. Despite trying to keep his bike steady, John swerves because of the impact, thereby riding too close to the Shad Sanderson man next to him and sending him crashing to the ground before he himself goes down. The next few seconds are a complete and utter nightmare. John barely feels when he hits the asphalt. He slides a few metres, to come to rest half on top of the Shad Sanderson man, and under another rider in neon green. His left shoulder, elbow and upper thigh suddenly hurt like absolute fucking hell. Something (a wheel?) crashes into his side, flies over him, before something else (elbow? knee?) hits him in the belly as apparently a rider rolls over him, his feet still attached to his pedals, meaning he takes his bike with him. There are cries, curses, crashing bicycles and bodies all around John and the tangle of limps and bicycle parts he is caught in. Instinctively, he tries to curl up as small as possible to prevent his arms and legs getting overrun, and to protect his face and chest area, grateful for his helmet (his sunglasses have somehow disappeared).

It’s all over in a few seconds. Amid groaning and cursing and “Are you okay?”s in many different languages, the huge tangled mess most of the peloton has become begins to sort itself out while ahead, the excited voice of the announcer can be heard over the din of the spectators, cars, and the urgent voices of Greg and Sally in John’s ear. Apparently some riders managed to avoid the crash and are actually racing for a stage win. Lucky bastards. Shoving another rider’s bike off him, John scrambles into a sitting position. His shoulder throbs dully. His left side hurts like hell, both his ribs and his hip which surely are bruised. A stabbing pain in his left elbow makes him wince and curse. Moving it gingerly, at least the joint doesn’t seem damaged apart from bruises and abrasions. His upper thigh hurts as well. When he turns for a look, he sees that his shorts have been torn open. The side of his thigh almost up to his arse is exposed. Blood is welling from a number of scrapes where the skin has been rubbed off by the asphalt. John praises the fact that the tarmac has been wet. Otherwise, the abrasions would be much deeper. Still, the road rash is going to be bloody uncomfortable. It will have to be cleaned diligently, which means rubbing open the wounds again in the shower to let them bleed out properly and get rid of grit and dirt. Since such a large area of skin is affected, it won’t heal easily despite bandages and whatever ointments Sarah is going to apply. Everything is going to hurt: sleeping, sitting, cycling. It will mean a miserable few nights and days until the abrasions have scabbed over properly. John takes a deep breath and winces as he picks small pieces of gravel out of the wounds. He really dreads today’s shower. It’s going to be an utter blood-bath, literally.

Most other riders are on their feet again by now, sorting out themselves and their bikes while watching the screens. A few sprinters and riders who were far behind in the peloton seem to have evaded the crash and have made it to the finish. Some Belgian chap from the French Team Orange seems to have won the stage, with Bainbridge again coming second, and Stapleton of Team Baskerville third. Morstan, another serious contender for the green jersey, has fallen victim of the crash, as have all the other bearers of special jerseys, although most of them managed to brake in time to simply stop and avoid falling. There won’t be any significant changes in the general classification because due to the crash, the peloton will be all be awarded the same arrival time. Still, it’s a bloody nightmare. Most riders have mounted again and are slowly rolling towards the finish. Some are walking or even carrying their bikes. John’s bike has a damaged front wheel, meaning he’s got to carry it as well. As he shoulders it with a wince and a groan, he searches the field for Sherlock and the rest of his teammates. All seem to have survived relatively unscathed. Anderson’s knee is bleeding, and something seems to be off with Gregson’s gear shift because he can’t seem to get his bike to work properly again, but none of them is as badly injured as John, which is heartening. Yes, his entire left side hurts like shit, but it’s a small price to pay.

At least he can walk, unlike two other riders who are still down and are being treated by paramedics now. One of them seems to have crashed into the barricade and lost consciousness, while another looks as if something in his hand is sprained or even broken. That would mean he’s out of the Tour. John sighs when he recognises Selden, the oldest rider. If he’s out, John is going to be the old man of this year’s Tour de France – and right now, he is feeling each and every one of his years. And it’s going to be worse tomorrow. He sighs and trudges on, determined to cross the finish despite the pain. He won’t give up. He _will_ ride tomorrow. Giving up would mean going home. _It would mean not sharing a room with Sherlock anymore._

Like most others, John eventually makes it across the finish, to the encouraging cheers from the crowds and well-meaning remarks from the announcer. On the screens, a time-lapse of the crash as filmed by the stationary cameras near the finish is playing. John sees that one of the Brook Consulting riders came too close to his rear wheel and caused him to swerve and ultimately crash, which lead to a domino effect that brought down most of the peloton. It’s rather a marvel that only few people seem to have acquired serious injuries. An accident like this could have resulted in far worse, wiping out some of the more serious contenders for the overall win. Watching the time-lapse, John doesn’t believe the crash was caused deliberately. Accidents like this happen, particularly towards the end of a stage.

They happen, and it’s by far not the first crash of this kind John has been involved in during his long career. _Would be nice if it were the last one, though_ , he thinks as he swats away a microphone a reporter has shoved into his face. He doesn’t want to talk to anybody now, he wants to know that his teammates are okay, and then have a drink and a snack, and something against the pain in his shoulder. Shower, doctor, massage, in that order. And more food. And then sleep. Over the reporter’s shoulder, he can see Mike approaching with Sarah in tow. It’s going to be doctor first, apparently.

After Sarah has checked him for more serious injuries than bruises and abrasions, of which luckily there appear to be none, John and most of the other Team Speedy’s riders are carted off to their hotel. Sherlock and Kit are staying behind for the ceremonies. The hotel is situated in the city centre, within view of the cathedral and the castle. Usually, John enjoys these things, and likes to explore local sights during rest days or training stays. But right now, he wants nothing more than get to his room, peel off what’s left of his shorts and have a shower, followed by some more painkillers. Sarah has already given him a small dose. John knows that his injuries aren’t serious, and not even overly painful. They’re just a bloody awful nuisance. All of them need time to heal, and he needs rest, commodities one simply doesn’t have during the fucking Tour de France.

 

**– <o>–**

 

At least the room is good. Recently refurbished, by the looks of it, it’s a mixture of functional furniture in light wood-tones complemented by neutral hues and modern, more colourful touches in the soft furnishings. It has a slight retro feel, or perhaps it’s the kind of design that’s in fashion at the moment, a kind of up-market IKEA look. It’s also surprisingly spacious for an inner-city hotel, with a generous ensuite. There is air-conditioning, too, which is a wonderful bonus (and not to be counted upon in most of the hotels they are going to be staying in in the weeks to come). The window overlooks a cobbled square lined by cafés and bars, already lively with patrons enjoying Belgian beer and _frites_. Without the accident, John would have enjoyed sitting out there with his teammates after dinner, soaking up the atmosphere and sampling a non-alcoholic version of the local beers. They don’t often get this opportunity, with sometimes lengthy transfers after stages. But in his current state, the only thing he wants is rest. He’s still debating whether he feels like heading down for dinner later. It would mean having to dress, and wearing too many clothes on top of road rash ... nope, not good.

The luggage has already been dropped off, even Sherlock’s violin case. John marvels that he agreed to part with it. Someone has arranged the stuffed lion he won in the Prologue in one of the bright green armchairs near the window. The sight makes John smile despite his discomfort. Quickly, he fetches his small bag of toiletries and an ample supply of towels and locks himself in the bathroom. Sarah cleaned his worst abrasions on site, treated them with antibiotic cream and put on a light dressing to stop the bleeding. Mike provided him with cool-packs for his bruises. Both are due to arrive in a short while, Sarah for a more thorough check and treatment of John’s injuries, Mike for a careful massage.

But first John needs a shower. The skin of his face is tight from dried sweat, despite emptying some water bottles over his head. He reeks, too, of sweat and grime and medication, and a lingering tang of blood. Getting out of his clothes is the first challenge. John curses when he begins to peel off his jersey. The pain in his ribs and shoulder flares up like a beacon. He rolls his shoulder carefully and takes several deep breaths. His upper thigh and elbow took the brunt of the impact, but the crash has aggravated his old shoulder injury. It’s going to be sore for days. His ribs are bruised where one of the other cyclists drove into his side, but nothing appears to be broken. His left elbow is bruised, too, and has been bleeding. But the joint seems undamaged, and doesn’t hurt much when John bends his arm or grips something with his left hand. Things get nasty when he takes off what is left of his shorts. Where the skin has been left intact on his upper thigh and the side of his arse, purple bruises are already forming, a vivid contrast to the pale, untanned skin in these areas. Hissing with pain, he peels off the dressing. He is lucky that only the upper layer of skin seems to have been damaged. It’s barely bleeding anymore – for now. If he’s not careful and it gets infected, it’s going to ooze for days – or it scabs over and dries out too quickly, and is going to tear open with every careless movement.

Stepping into the shower, John gazes up at the showerhead and takes a deep breath, bracing himself for what is to come, before resolutely turning on the shower. The water warms up quickly, although in consideration of his injuries, he opts for a tepid temperature.

“Fuck,” he curses when the water hits the wounds, followed by “Jesus fucking Christ,” when he begins to rub the skin gently, tearing off the thin layer of cream, forcing the abrasions to bleed again and washing out any remaining bits of road dirt and gravel still stuck in the wound. He lets the water run for a while, as cool and with as much pressure as feels comfortable, washing away sweat and grime and blood. He forgoes shaving his legs this time, simply stands in the shower until the pain subsides somewhat. When he reaches for a towel, he silently apologises to the hotel staff who are going to have to clean the blood-soaked thing again. Carefully dabbing at the oozing wounds, he then wraps another towel round his waist and hobbles into the room. Apparently, Sarah has organised another key-card, because she is already there. Her bag sits on one of the beds where she has spread out bandages and medication after removing the duvet, and a large disposable cover to protect the mattress. She turns to him, taking in his state with a wry smile while pulling on a pair of disposable gloves.

“My, my, you do look worse for wear, John,” she comments. Her eyes are both worried and kind.

John gives her a lopsided grin. “It’s not the years, honey, it’s the mileage,” he quotes Indiana Jones.

Sarah laughs. “This I believe. How are you feeling?”

“Like I’ve been run over by half the bloody peloton.” He shrugs. “It’s okay, I guess. The night’s going to be shit, and tomorrow’s not going to be a joy ride, either, particularly on the _pavés_. But I’ll manage.”

“So you want to continue?”

John stares at her. The option of giving up hadn’t even entered his mind. “Of course.”

She nods. “You don’t have to, you know. People have given up for less.”

“Or ridden on with worse. I’m fine, Sarah. You know me. Stubborn arse and all that. Wasn’t that what you called me when I was being an idiot to you?”

She looks at him, her expression grave. “Yes, I think so. And I apologised. We were both idiots on occasion. And I’m not here to bring up this old stuff, you know that. Come on, sit – or lie – down here. No need to stain then carpet with blood, after you’ve soaked through one towel already.”

“Is this your attempt at getting me to drop the towel, Doctor Sawyer?” quips John.

She rolls her eyes and points at the blanket. “Nothing I haven’t seen before. And it’s not that impressive, anyway,” she adds with a wink. “ Off with it, and get on here. I’ll be giving you a tetanus shot first, and I need your naked and recently scrubbed arse for that.”

John obeys, and Sarah begins to work. “You were lucky today, John,” she at length says quietly. John knows she is thinking of James Sholto and of his accident, which required much more of her than administering some wound dressing and light pain medication.

He swallows and nods. “I certainly won’t miss this part of professional cycling,” he muses. “You know, wiping the road with one’s limbs.”

“But you’re going to miss the cycling, aren’t you?”

He nods. Sarah has always been good at reading him. Sometimes, John regrets that ultimately, despite several attempts of getting back together during different stages in their lives, things didn’t work out between them. Sarah is intelligent, witty, resourceful, a bloody good doctor. The sex was good, too. But by unspoken agreement, what they are now seems to suit each of them best: good friends, who can be frank with one another without the other taking it badly. “What are you going to do after the Tour?” she wants to know. John shrugs.

“Haven’t the faintest,” he says honestly. “Sleep for a few months, I guess, and eat whatever I like. But after that ... I don’t know. Maybe I’ll finish that degree in medicine, if they allow oldies like me into Uni still. Maybe I’ll ask Greg if he’d like to take me on as another coach. What about you? Greg implied that you were thinking about quitting the team.”

She inclines her head. “Thinking about it, yes. Stuart is partner at a surgery in London now and they’re looking for people to bolster up their team.”

“Stuart? The doctor who worked for WADA some years ago?”

“Yes. We’ve been together for two years, remember.”

John smiles. He is happy for her, he realises. “Oh yeah. Didn’t know things were that serious, though. So you might join him at that surgery?”

“Perhaps. I haven’t decided yet. But I thought ... well, I’m approaching forty now, and I still haven’t given up on perhaps raising a child – adoption rather than having one myself. A dog or two would be nice, too, and ... you know, settle down somewhere, not be away from home all the time patching up some silly cyclists. And even though I love this team and life on the road, I think I’m ready for something else. What about you? Anybody you’re involved with right now?”

John watches her, wondering whether she has suspicions about him and James. He shakes his head. “No.”

She winks at him and slaps his hale arse-cheek playfully. “Well, the Tour has just started. Plenty of pretty awards ceremony ladies around, aren’t there? You’ll just have to nab a stage win to get a chance for a bit of hanky-panky, or hang around at the hotel bars in the evenings. I bet you could still charm a few, impress them with tales of your adventures as a veteran of the Tour.”

John snorts. “Honestly, that was one year, when I had the thing with that French girl. I’d just won my first stage.” He thinks for a moment. “Okay, two years, maybe, and it wasn’t just the one awards lady. I was young, and it was fun. Never anything serious.”

Her eyes watching him grow sad for a moment. “I know.”

He sighs. “It wasn’t like that between us. Casual, I mean. I really did love you, and wanted it to work. Still do, in fact, although it’s different now. You know that.”

“Yes, I know. Same here. And we had fun, too, didn’t we, while it lasted? But I guess it was the wrong time – every time we tried – and the wrong circumstances. And I wasn’t the right person for you, anyway.”

“What do you mean?”

She shrugs, and doesn’t look at him while carefully applying antibacterial cream and a large gauze dressing to the wound on his thigh. “Sarah?” he enquires. Something about her tone struck him oddly.

She sighs and gazes at him. “I noticed how you were around James, how he was around you. You were joined at the hip. I also remember, vividly, how you reacted when he had that accident. All of us were worried about him, naturally. But you ... it was ... different. He meant a lot to you, didn’t he? You were friends, had been roommates for years ...” Catching John’s expression, she goes on. John detects a wariness around her she doesn’t usually display towards him. Sarah can be frank to the point of being rude, and he’s always appreciated her no-nonsense attitude, her outspokenness. But now she seems to be choosing her words with great caution, obviously not wanting to upset him.

“I don’t mean to imply anything,” she says, covering the gaze with a Spandage to keep it in place. “It’s just something I noticed.”

“What did you notice, Sarah?” John wants to know, speaking more sharply than he intended.

“You’ve been out of sorts ever since his crash – even before, come to think of it. Something shifted between you and James during the Dauphiné. You used to be such good friends. Joined at the hip, as I said. At ease with one another, no sign of bitching or rivalry. But then suddenly, you were tense around the other. For a few days, it seemed as if you avoided each other as best you could, despite sharing rooms. It was ... awkward. I wasn’t the only one who noticed. The tension was palpable in the entire team. Then he crashed. And since his accident, you didn’t seem like yourself at all anymore, at least for a while. It got better when the Dauphiné was over and we started preparations for the Tour. But all the time, you seemed troubled somehow, as if feeling out of sorts, or guilty for something. Of course all of that could be because this is your last Tour, and understandably, you’re worried about the future. And of course James’ accident and the time after was pretty harrowing, for all of us. Anyway, I’m glad you seem somewhat recovered now.”

“I do?” John is surprised. Her words have shaken him, and he doesn’t want to think about all the things she didn’t say out loud, but clearly implied. And it’s not that he doesn’t trust Sarah. He’d confide in her, if he were sure what exactly to confide. The whole thing with James ... he hasn’t had time (or, if he is perfectly honest with himself, the inclination) to think about it. It’s still too raw, and many aspect of it require a deeper inspection, and some serious questions asked of himself. And he isn’t ready for that yet. Therefore, he is grateful for the slight change of topic, a chance to steer clear of the past and talk about recent developments. 

“What makes you think so?” he asks.

Sarah smiles at him and shrugs, carefully pulling a Spandage (which to John looks like a fishnet stocking) over the dressing to secure it in place. “I don’t know. You just seem happier. It was great to see you do so well in the Prologue, and obviously enjoy your ride. And Kit’s really taken with you. You’re like a big brother to him, somebody to look up to. Although sometimes you seemed grumpy and pissed off by something. Worried, too. Yesterday in particular. Not sure what had happened then, but it was plain to see something was bothering you. Not so today, though. You were positively beaming at breakfast this morning. It was the first time I’ve seen you completely happy and relaxed for the first time in months. I watched you for a bit, you know. You were smiling almost all the time.”

John frowns, trying to remember what he did at breakfast to get him in such an obvious good mood. “I simply sat and chatted with my teammates,” he says.

Sarah inclines her head, smiles. “Yes. And one of them in particular.”

John eyes narrow, because he thinks he understands now what she is driving at.

“You mean Sherlock?”

“Yep,” she returns airily.

“You think Sherlock is the reason for my good mood?”

“I do indeed.”

He snorts and shakes his head. “That’s ... Sarah, I’ve only known him for a few days. And he’s ... odd.”

“So are you, so am I. So is everybody on this team.”

“Not Sherlock’s brand of odd, I can assure you.” He gestures towards Sherlock’s luggage. “I mean, he ... he brought a bloody violin, for God’s sake, and yesterday he staged an almighty scene because first he wanted a single room, and then suddenly decided he was happy to share with me again, under the disguise that he needed my adapter to charge his phone. The man is utterly round the bend.” 

“Perhaps. Nevertheless you like him, and he’s obviously taken a liking to you as well – or at least your adapter.” She winks at him and nods towards his bag, indicating that she is done with his thigh. John fishes out a pair of boxer-briefs and carefully shimmies them over the dressing, to then pull them up on his injured leg to leave as much skin as possible exposed to the air. He sighs as he watches Sarah. She hasn’t changed. She is like a terrier on a scent, never lets go.

“Are you implying I’m attracted to him?”

“Would that be so bad?”

“Actually, yes. Dating teammates isn’t a good idea, as both of us can attest to. Also ... he’s a bloke, and—” 

“Bit of advice, John,” she interrupts him with a trace of impatience. “Yes, I get it. Sherlock is a strange chap who you barely know. He absolutely lacks certain social skills, can be aloof and condescending, and that’s when he’s in a generous mood. His track record with drugs isn’t good, either. And Dear Christ how terrifying, he is a bloke. What a catastrophe. I usually date men and I’m still alive, and no, it’s not any different were you to date blokes, only in your perception. I think Sherlock genuinely likes you. He certainly doesn’t extend that courtesy to a lot of people. He descended on me like a hawk when I’d looked after you near the finish. He almost missed his awards ceremony because wanted to hear everything about your injuries. Right now, he’s wearing a groove into the carpet on the corridor outside this room here because I told him to stay there while I looked after you. I told you I watched you this morning. I watched him, too, and it struck me how much at ease you are with each other, despite having known each other for so short a time. Sherlock has a reputation for being difficult. If you ask his old teammates, most will attest to him being a proper arsehole. And he can be rude and abrasive – very much like a certain other rider I know when he’s pissed off at something, although that rider rather tends towards grumpiness and stoic silence. I’m not saying anything has to come of it. But if there was the slightest chance ...” 

“Of what?” 

She draws an exasperated breath. “Don’t blow it just because he’s a bloke, is all I’m saying.” She holds out her hand. “Arm.” 

John raises his arm to give her access to his elbow. “Sarah, you know I’m not gay.” 

“Yes, I do remember, John,” she quips wryly. “I have it on good authority you like the ladies, and on the danger of inflating your ego, I think we ladies like you, too, because you usually give us a good time. And I’m not saying that you should jump Sherlock’s bones at the next best opportunity. Hell, I’m not even sure he is into that sort of thing. At all. He barely suffered me to touch him during examinations. I actually wonder whether he lets anybody massage him. But ... I think I better shut up now. This will need a stitch or two, if you insist on riding tomorrow.” 

John nods, hissing softly when she disinfects the wound. Her words about James and Sherlock have rattled him. What she didn’t say is even worse. Still, the fact that the latter is so worried about John’s wellbeing that he interrogated Sarah about it fills John’s stomach with a strange kind of warmth. He hates to admit it, hates to be so utterly transparent – at least he can pretend that Sarah knows him better than others do, and that most others would be oblivious of what she observed, but she is right. He does like Sherlock, likes him a lot, in fact. And the suggestion it might be mutual ... it’s good. It really is. Then again, Sherlock might just have been worried that John was out of the Tour and that he’d be losing the one roommate he seems to have come to tolerate. And anyway, who knows what goes on in that weird, over-active brain of Sherlock’s? 

“You’re smiling again,” observes Sarah while readying a suturing kit. “Wonder why.” 

“Shut up,” he returns good-naturedly. 

She laughs brightly. “Just pull your head out of arse, John, and admit to yourself that you might not exclusively be a ladies’ man. I bet things will get a lot easier afterwards.” 

John gives her a dark look. “I doubt it.”

  

**– <o>–**

 

As soon as John’s elbow has been bandaged, Sarah goes to open the door while pulling off her gloves. Behind it a somewhat frazzled looking Sherlock stops his pacing, spins round in a near perfect pirouette, and glowers at her. 

“Finally,” he grouses. Picking up a few things from the floor he brushes past her and strides into the room. He is wearing today’s new yellow jersey and is carrying a tote bag with his helmet, gloves and what looks like several water bottles. A bouquet of sunflowers and another stuffed lion are under each of his arms. He deposits everything on the bed not occupied by John and Sarah’s equipment. Before even taking in the rest of the room, his eyes flit to John, whom he studies with a long, keen gaze. John gets the distinct impression of being x-rayed. 

He also feels a strange but not unwelcome flip of his stomach when Sherlock’s eyes linger on his bare legs and his arse, only partly covered by his underwear. He sees a flush bloom on Sherlock’s cheeks, the way his gaze flitters away and locks on his bandaged elbow instead. Sherlock swallows, his lips opening ever so slightly. Perhaps Sarah is on to something. Perhaps ... 

“Are you finally done here?” Sherlock spins round to Sarah, his voice gruff and quite rude – he’s clearly overdoing being put out. John bites his lips to hide a smile. _God, he’s even worse at this than I am.  
_

Sarah isn’t daunted by Sherlock’s bluster. “Almost. I just have to pack my things again and clean up a little. Sorry for keeping you from using the shower.” 

“I need the toilet first,” declares Sherlock. “You can look after these in the meantime.” He picks up the sunflowers and holds them out to her. “Use John’s Swiss army knife to give them a fresh cut, then put them in warm water and they’ll recover. This reusable cup here,” he produces one from the tote bag, “should suffice as a vase if you cut off a bit of the stems.” With that he leaves Sarah standing and staring, the wilting sunflowers in one of her hands, and stalks off into the bathroom. The door shuts with a clang. 

John and Sarah exchange a glance, and she grins. 

“What?” asks John, keeping his voice low. 

She shrugs, gathering together her things. “Just ... he couldn’t have been more obvious, could he,” she says quietly. “Remember what I said, John. I suspect he’s a complete idiot when it comes to romance, worse than you, in fact. But did you notice his reaction? He was totally distracted by half your arse hanging out of your pants, but was too shy and awkward to even enquire how you were doing.” 

“Didn’t he interrogate you about how I was doing just after the race? Also, I guess he deduced my state of health just from looking at me. He does that.” 

“Yeah, I know. I was on the receiving end of one of his deductions, too. Not something I’d like to repeat any time soon, even though he got most things right, and it was actually quite impressive. But that boy is head over heels for you, John, I swear. Also, he’s most certainly gay.” 

John sighs, carefully shifting his sitting position to find one that doesn’t aggravate his injuries. “Yes, he is. He came out to me on the ferry.” He glances at the flowers and grins. “Make sure you treat them right, Sarah.” 

She snorts. “I will. Wonder how he knows so much about them. Because he was perfectly right about the warm water. Sunflowers like that. Can you reach your knife – how the hell does he even know you have one?” 

John shrugs, winces, before carefully bending down to search for the item in his bag. Sarah takes it and cuts the flowers down to a length to fit the cup, which she fills with water from one of the bottles from Sherlock’s bag. “There you are,” she says, cutting open the string that holds the bouquet together and arranges the flowers in their makeshift vase, which she puts on John’s bedside table. “Clearly, you’re the supposed recipient, not me.” 

John glares at her. “Why are you so determined to ... don’t know ... hook me up with Sherlock Holmes, Sarah?” he asks with some exasperation. 

“Because I think you’d be good for one another.” 

“You barely know him. And I told you, he’s a nutter.”

“A nutter who wants to make sure his flowers survive for a bit? Come on, John. Most riders we know wouldn’t even have brought them to their room, would have thrown or given them away. He has a good heart, under all the ...” She draws herself up and looks down at John sternly, thus giving a good imitation of Sherlock. 

“Also, John Watson, I know you,” she replies. “You’re already hooked.” Swinging her bag over her shoulder, she winks at John. “See you at dinner. And tell his lordship I’ll see him later and give him something for the sunburn on his nose before it gets any worse. Don’t forget to mention that he needs to exchange the cold water for warm for his precious flowers. If you need more cool packs and painkillers, let me know. Mike will be here in a moment for your massage. Have you eaten anything since the crash?” 

“Had two protein bars and a banana. I think there’s a packet of rice waffles in my bag.” 

“Have some of those now,” she advises and makes for the door, “and make sure you drink enough.” 

“Sarah?” 

She stops and turns to him. “Thank you. For patching me up, and also for ... you know. What you said.” 

She smiles. “Good luck with lordship, Johnny, should you decide to stop being an idiot and give it a try.”

John lets out a long breath when she has closed the door behind her. Dimly, he can hear the shower in the bathroom. Running both hands over his face and through his drying hair, wincing slightly at the stabs in his shoulder and elbow, he curses softly. Sarah is right, at least where he is concerned. He was attracted to James, and as for Sherlock ... Christ knows what’s going on there. _He’s brilliant and special and quite mad and also quite gorgeous,_ one part of his brain suggests. _He does have a good heart, a gentle side, too, the way he was with the children, and now the flowers.  
_

_And he’s your teammate,_ insists another, _and probably not interested in anything but cycling, particularly given his past experience with Victor Trevor. Don’t start anything now, it’ll only lead to problems. If you start something and the press learns about it – and they will, they always do – you’ll be crucified alive. You’ll make yourselves targets to all kinds of attacks. Also, it’ll distract you from cycling. It might distract him, too. Remember what happened to James, who was clearly thinking about your quarrel during that descent, and not concentrating on the road, distracted because of your hurtful words and the long discussion that followed and kept you awake most of the night. Never again, John, not with a teammate, not during a race.  
_

“John,” an imperious baritone sounds from the direction of the bathroom. John jumps slightly and turns towards the voice. He’s been so lost in thought he didn’t realise that the shower has stopped and that Sherlock has opened the ensuite door a fraction. Humid air smelling of his fancy shampoo is wafting into the room. 

“Yeah?” 

“Towel.” 

“What?”

A huff echoes through the ensuite, loud enough for John to hear. “Have you ruptured your ear-drum in your crash? I said would you bring me a towel, please? I forgot to take any to the bathroom with me, and the ones here are wet and stained with blood.” 

“No, you didn’t say that. You only said ‘towel’.” 

“Technicalities. Are you going to bring me one or not?” 

“I’m injured, you know.” 

“And I’m sopping wet.” 

John glances at the stack of towels on Sherlock’s bed. He sighs and stands, groaning with discomfort as he stretches carefully, dressings and Spandages pulling at his wounds. Cycling is going to be hell tomorrow. In fact, even ordinary things like sitting and breathing are going to hurt worse than they do today. He doubt’s he’s going to get much sleep tonight. Letting out a long breath, he shuffles over to the other bed, picks up the towels and is just about to turn in the direction of the bathroom when a long arm shoots out from behind him. He spins round and finds himself face to face with Sherlock. A very wet and very naked Sherlock. 

_Don’t look down, don’t look down. Damn it._ Of course John’s treacherous gaze scans Sherlock from head to toe. He’s seen him in his underwear before, is familiar with his narrow shoulders and freckled, almost hairless chest. He’s never seen him without pants, though, and is surprised by the auburn touch to his pubic hair, and the appendix scar that’s more visible than it should be, indicating that infection set in and that initially, the wound didn’t heal well. And for a man with such large hands and feet, Sherlock’s cock is of average size, so apparently the commonly held knowledge of certain sizes corresponding isn’t true. 

John feels blood shoot into his cheeks. His mouth is dry. It shouldn’t matter, seeing another man naked. It shouldn’t be an issue at all. He’s showered with teammates before. There’s little privacy in professional cycling. During examinations and massages riders are mostly naked, their modesty only covered by small towels. They have to piss into jars almost every day, sometimes with anti-doping officials literally peering over their shoulders to ensure the samples are valid and haven’t been tampered with. But of course this is different. He is staring, and he knows it. And so does Sherlock. One of his eyebrows twitches up. John can’t read his expression. Is it surprise, disbelief, a challenge? Did he walk out here starkers deliberately? What is he trying to achieve? Test John, call him out on the steadfast denial of his bisexuality? Is this a game to Sherlock, an experiment? Or lies more behind it? Is he actually attracted to John and this is a blatant, if rather awkward attempt at ... seducing him? Or is John overthinking the whole thing and Sherlock is just being Sherlock: disregarding every social norm in the book because he’s not interested in adhering to them? So what if his roommates sees his cock? It’s all natural, isn’t it? And he does need the towels, after all. Like this, he’s dripping all over the carpet. 

“Thanks,” mutters Sherlock, snatching the towels from John and disappearing into the ensuite again, leaving wet footprints on the way and granting John an unrestricted view of his ample backside (which he could have covered with one of the towels he is carrying, but chose not to ...), the skin showing almost white in contrast to his tanned legs and arms. The door of the bathroom is shut with another resounding clang, leaving John to exhale shakily. _Bloody fucking hell.  
_

If this is what the remainder of the Tour is going to be like ... John doesn’t know whether to look forward to it or curse his roommate. Perhaps he should reconsider sharing with Anderson. He could wear a combination of earplugs and headphones to protect himself against the snoring ... _You did enjoy the view just now, admit it. He’s a bit oddly proportioned, but he’s also fucking gorgeous. And that’s just his looks, without taking the rest of him into account. Do yourself a favour and stop pretending you’re not interested, John. Stop worrying about how things turned out with James. Perhaps it wasn’t supposed to be. This, here, this could be it. Accept it, and don’t mess it up.  
_

Glancing at Sherlock’s large footprints thoughtfully, John licks his lips. Perhaps it’s time to officially enter this strange game they seem to be playing, and to raise the stakes. Sherlock Holmes is not the only person who can turn on the charm. John’s rather good at it, too. Time to test the waters, then.

**– <o>–**

 

A short while later, Mike arrives for the massage. Sherlock is still in the bathroom, probably styling his hair. John submits to Mike’s ministrations while listening to the latest gossip which Mike readily provides, and checking his phone for messages. There are quite a few, almost half of them from his sister. They chart increasing worries about his silence. Obviously, she and some of their mutual friends watched his crash on television and now wants to know whether he’s still alive. He text her that he is, and takes a picture of the dressing on his thigh to send her. 

“Apparently, the officials are trying to decide if really was just an accident after all, or if anybody is to blame for what happened,” says Mike while kneading John’s left calf. “From what I heard, Team Shad Sanderson asked for the investigation.” 

“Shit. You think they’ll implicate me?” John wants to know. “I was the one who caused the Shad Sanderson rider to fall. But it wasn’t intentional. On the videos I watched you can’t see that somebody touched my rear wheel, causing it to block, before I swerved and hit the rider next to me. They could easily blame me for the whole mess. Careless cycling and whatnot. I wouldn’t so much mind if they gave me a time penalty. I’m not riding for GC, so it wouldn’t matter. But if they decide on a money penalty, or even disqualify me ...” 

Mike shakes his head. “They won’t, don’t worry. These things happen. You’ve been doing this long enough to know that.” 

“You’re not to blame in any case,” comes Sherlock’s voice from the direction of the ensuite. Presently, he saunters out, dressed in dark-blue boxer-briefs and a t-shirt, his locks still moist but artfully tousled. He walks to his bed to fetch his phone from the tote bag. 

“What makes you think so?” asks John. 

Sherlock studies something on the screen for a moment, before jabbing it with a finger and holding it out to John. The screen shows a paused video of the moment just before the crash. It’s been taken from a different angle, either a spectator’s recording – even though the quality is almost too good for it – or some other official camera. Much more can be seen here than what the TV coverage showed.

“Look at this,” says Sherlock, and there is excitement in his voice. “The rider from Brook Consulting – their sprinter Jefferson Hope – whose front wheel touched your rear and caused you to crash. He is clearly riding too close to you. It could have been purely accidental in a packed peloton such as this. But I don’t think so. Why would he be riding so close to the front already? His _domestique_ , Wiggins, is behind him. It doesn’t make any sense for Hope to be so far ahead if there’s still a kilometre to go to the finish. He’d be wasting precious energy, and a sprinter as experienced as he knows this. And look at Wiggins’s expression. He looks confused, clearly doesn’t understand Hope’s action. Obviously, it’s not following the team’s strategy. Hope is acting in a way that wasn’t agreed on, at least not with Wiggins in the know.” 

“I don’t understand it, either, unless ...,” muses John. “So what you mean is ... Hope caused the crash deliberately? But why? I mean, he went down as well and so annihilated his chances of a stage win.” 

“He wouldn’t have won the stage. He is experienced and wily, but he’s no longer able to summon the high speeds and explosiveness necessary to beat men like Morstan or Bainbridge on the last stretch. And he knows it. Here, look at this.” 

Sherlock rewinds the video, studies it for a while, pauses it, rewinds it as well, and hands his phone back to John. Mike leans in to watch as well. “Bloody hell, John,” he comments after two runs. “It could be the angle this was filmed, but it sure looks like Jeff Hope is heading directly towards you. Look at how he winds his way through the ranks. Could be just him trying to get to the head of the peloton, but see here, and here, too. There are plenty of gaps he could have used to pass a bulk of riders on either side, but didn’t. Instead, he crept up on you. But why?”

John nods thoughtfully. Next to him, Sherlock claps his hands together. He seems positively delighted by something. “Exactly. Now you’re asking the right questions.” 

John looks up at him and frowns. “What do you mean? Are you implying that Hope was trying to make me crash in particular? But why, and why me? I’m not a sprinter, I’m not riding for the points classification, or the general. I have no personal issues with him. Fact is, I barely know him. So why ...?”

Sherlock beams. “We are going to find out,” he promises, sounding surprisingly convinced and utterly delighted by the entire thing.

John exchanges a confused glance with Mike, who raises both eyebrows and shrugs. “ _We_ are?” enquires John.

“Of course. Teammates and all that, remember? Do keep up, John.”

John huffs, while at the same time feeling a smile tug at the corners of his mouth. Sherlock really is impossible. But if this investigation or whatever he has in mind keeps him happy, far be it from John to take it away from him. 

“Where did you get this video, anyway?” he wants to know, handing the phone back to Sherlock. “It shows so much more than what the stationary cameras caught. And who filmed it? It almost looks as if it was taken by a drone or something, given the slightly elevated angle. The quality is really good.” 

Sherlock smiles mysteriously. “Suffice to say I have my sources.”

“Oh? Got your own fan club stationed all along the route to film you, then?” quips John. 

Sherlock’s bright expression darkens. “I don’t have a _fan club_ ,” he says, the last word dripping with disdain. “I don’t even have fans.” He tries to hide it, John is sure, but beneath the disdain, there is disappointment. He drops his gaze, because Sherlock looks ... hurt.

Mike’s hearty chuckle lightens the mood. “Not to rain on your self-pitying parade, mate, but when have you last searched your name on the internet?”

Sherlock’s reaction is one of alarm. “What do you mean?”

“I mean ... let me get my phone ...,” he wipes his oily hands on a towel and burrows for his mobile in the pockets of his cargo-trousers. A short while later, he holds it up, showing the first page of a Google search. “Apart from what the press has to say, there are plenty of entries on twitter and instagram and other social media sites about you. And not just crap. Here, look at this. They’re calling themselves the ‘Sherlockians’ and mostly post candid shots of you on their instas. And here’s an entire tumblr devoted to you. Oh, and John, apparently.” He turns the phone to view one of the photos featured on the site more closely and blushes.

John snatches the phone from his hand and almost drops it. The photo is a manipulation, obviously, but a decent one. It’s based on a shot of Sherlock and him after the Prologue, when he sat close to him, rubbing his back and making sure the other didn’t faint. The Photoshop artist has put them even closer together, and has replaced their heads with profile shots.

“Are we supposed to be kissing?” asks Sherlock, leaning in to gaze over John’s shoulder. John catches a whiff of his hair-product and hopes Sherlock doesn’t notice the goose-bumps rising on his arms. “The lighting of the profiles is all wrong, as are the proportions. Not very convincing, the whole thing. Clearly a manipulation.”

John swallows. “Yep. Obviously.”

Mike grins at them. “Still, it proves that you do have fans out there. Very creative ones, too. Give them a few more days, and there’s gonna be fanfiction, too.” He slaps John’s knee playfully. “I’m done with you, John. If you feel you can move, switch places with Sherlock here so that I can see to him. Any particular problems today, Sherlock? Anything I should know? Sunburn, injuries? Anything that’s particularly tense?”

Sherlock shakes his head. He seems lost in thought. Groaning softly, John gets to his feet and walks a few steps to fetch the rice waffles from his bag. He offers them to Sherlock, who, to his surprise, takes one as he sits down and swings his legs onto the mattress to give Mike access. John dresses in a loose t-shirt and a pair of equally loose shorts to at least look partly presentable for dinner. Mike continues to chatter, tells them what he knows about Team Brook Consulting and Jefferson Hope. John fetches his phone and walks over to the window. There he stands, absently gazing at the square below while scrolling through today’s news. Sherlock is silent after having nibbled his waffle. John steals a glance at him as he lies on his back on the towels Mike has spread out on the bed, his eyes closed and his hands steepled under his chin. He looks as if he is meditating – or napping. As so often, John wonders what’s going on in that brilliant mind of his, whether he is thinking about Hope and his attack on John, and what to do about it. Whether he is bothered by what Mike found online, or if he doesn’t care what some fans of his produce.

Interestingly – surprisingly – John finds that he doesn’t mind the fan activities. They’re obviously having a lark, bless them. People are paired with others, often of the same gender, all the time. One simply has to look at Moriarty and Moran and their enthusiastic fans. They don’t mean any harm, or do they? John is slowly coming to terms with the fact he might be – _is_ – bisexual. Even if he were straight as a die, people would probably ship him with Sherlock, or Greg, or Kit, or ... In a way, it’s even somewhat flattering to be romantically linked with such a clever, gorgeous bloke such as Sherlock Holmes, if only on certain fan sites. _Wonder if there is more._

Curious, John starts his own online search for Sherlock Holmes. Apparently, there isn’t just one person going by that name. Hidden on the fourth page of the search results is a website called ‘The Science of Deduction’. It’s owner appears to be a consultant of some kind. John clicks on the link, reads the rude introduction to the site, which bluntly tells potential clients to not bother contacting Holmes with boring cases. He looks up, glances at Sherlock’s supine figure. Actually, this sounds a lot like his teammate, doesn’t it? Quite a lot, in fact. Is this the answer to the question of what he has been doing between riding in the Tour de France?

“Sherlock ...”

Sherlock takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly. “Yes, it is my website.”

John stares at him. “How ...?”

Sherlock’s eyes slide open, he smirks. “You’ve been checking the internet for more than twenty minutes, obviously searching for more fan material. You have been scrolling through search results for a while, loaded several pages of them which took a bit given the somewhat capricious WiFi in this hotel. Knowing that my website doesn’t show up in the first listings when you search for my name, it was highly likely you’d come across it after the time that had passed since you began your internet excursion. You’ve been studying me with a frown, trying to decide if the owner of ‘The Science of Deduction’ and I could be the same person. We are. I’m a consulting detective when I’m not cycling professionally.” 

“Okay. I had actually been wondering what you’d been doing ever since your first Tour.”

Sherlock’s eyes close again. He wiggles his shoulders a little to lie more comfortably on the mattress. “Well, now you know.”

John nods to himself. “Right. So ... consulting detective ... Never heard of that profession, to be honest. What does it mean? Who consults you?”

“People who need help. Private people, criminal investigators, the police. I’m the only one in the world. I invented the job.”

“Sounds interesting,” comments Mike, tapping Sherlock’s shoulder to indicate he should turn onto his belly.

“It can be,” agrees Sherlock, grunting as he removes his t-shirt and shifts position so that Mike can massage his back and shoulders.

“What made you return to professional cycling, then?” John wants to know.

Sherlock shrugs as he settles down on his front. “A dearth of interesting cases, mostly. People have become so boring.”

John watches him. It’s only part of the answer, he knows, but there was finality to Sherlock’s words, and the hint of a warning not to dig deeper. _Perhaps,_ muses John, _he’s going to reveal it at a later time. These are early days. We barely know each other._ He knows, with a sudden, startling clarity, that he _wants_ to learn more about this strange man who invented his own job because he was bored by existing options, and who chose to help people solve their problems, to find justice and closure. It’s really rather ... touching.

Smiling at his phone, John begins to read the descriptions of some of the cases Sherlock has listed on his website.

 

**– <o>–**

 

At dinner, most of the talk revolves around the crash and how it came to pass. Lestrade informs them that the official investigation has come to the conclusion that it was an unfortunate accident, and that no single rider is to blame, meaning no penalties will be dispensed. John is about to tell the others about Sherlock’s video, but Sherlock’s hand brushing his arm and a quick shake of head from the man next to him keep him silent. Obviously, Sherlock has plans of his own. John feels a rush of excitement thinking about what they might entail. Clearly, Sherlock wants to look into the matter himself. John vows to make sure he is included in the investigation.

He makes his excuse soon after the team meeting. Sherlock disappears with Molly and Soo Lin, probably to make sure the bike he is going to ride the next day is up to his special standards. John half expects him to drag it up to their room again to spend half the night tinkering with it. Most other riders retire early as well, mindful of the tough stage ahead.

“It didn’t seem so bad during training,” Kit says as he and John take the lift to their rooms.

John smiles wryly. “That’s because we had a good day, weather-wise, when he tried out the stage, particularly on the _pavés._ They were dry, but not too dusty. And we were riding in a small group instead of a peloton hundreds strong. You heard Greg. The weather is going to be hot and dry, which means that by the time we reach the first cobble-stone passages, they won’t be slippery due to moisture, at least. But crossing them in a large group can be carnage. You saw what happened today. One brief moment of not riding in a straight line, touching another rider’s bike with your own, and there’s a crash. And on the _pavés,_ particularly when the speed picks up, it’s almost impossible to ride straight because you get jostled about so much. Some are so narrow that the peloton gets strung into a long line, with some chaps riding on the grass verges because the middle of the road is domed, and the stones are more prominent there.”

He sighs. “We’ll survive, somehow, you’ll see. But don’t expect it to be an easy ride. It’s the longest stage of this Tour. That alone is tough. My big hope is that all these things will make for moderate speed tomorrow, unless you have some idiot trying to prove themselves in a breakaway.”

Chastened, Kit nods. “I won’t, for sure.”

“Me neither. I’ll be grateful if I reach Compiegne in one piece.”

 

**– <o>–**

 

After getting ready for bed, John spends some time researching Jefferson Hope and the team he rides for, but doesn’t find anything to bolster theories that Hope caused John to crash on purpose. Googling Team Brook Consulting inevitably leads to fan sites about Moriarty and Moran, which in turn leads to social media entries about Sherlock and John. Most of it is fun: people making wallpapers of their favourite riders, or tweeting about the stages. There are the usual trolls. John finds a few following his twitter account, blocks most of them and reports two who lashed out with vile racist and homophobic talk.

He finds the tumblr Mike showed them and scrolls through it for a while. Due to extensive coverage of their team due to Sherlock’s extended ride in the yellow jersey, there a many photographs of him online. The tumblr person seems to be quite taken with Sherlock’s looks, posting photo edits and memes, many of which involve John as well. He is surprised how little he minds, not even the more ‘shippy’ variations that show him and Sherlock holding hands or kissing, or, on a manipulation that obviously uses a photo of two rather muscly porn stars with their heads exchanged with those of Sherlock and John, having sex in a shower.

Of course, just when John is gazing at the picture, the door opens and Sherlock sweeps in, his eyes glued to his phone. John quickly scrolls past the image and switches off his tablet, cursing the fact that his cheeks are flushed.

Sherlock’s eyes briefly skip to him and his no doubt guilty expression, and he grins ever so briefly. “Found the shower manipulation, I take it?”

John rolls his eyes, curses the heat creeping into his cheeks, but nods. “They’re really quite creative, these fans, aren’t they?”

Sherlock glares at him. “Creative? Lazy, I call them. They could do a bit more research, at least, and choose their source material more carefully. Those two actors are clearly no professional cyclists. It’s easy to see. Their arms alone are far too muscular. Too much extra weight. No tan lines, either.”

John shrugs and laughs. “Yeah, true. But I guess the people who make these manips – and even more those who produce gay porn – like their men well built.”

Sherlock frowns as he bends over his bag to retrieve his sleepwear. “Do they?”

“Apparently. I’m not an expert, of course, but, well, even I have watched ... stuff.”

Sherlock looks up at him. “Stuff?”

John sighs. “Porn. You know.”

“Hardly.”

“So you ... don’t?”

“What?”

John heaves a sigh.

“Watch ... it.”

Sherlock looks confused. “Of course not. Complete waste of time, in my opinion. Unless it pertains to a case, which happened once. This particular kind of research was utterly tedious, mind-numbingly boring, sometimes disgusting. What I had to watch was cheaply produced, demeaning for the women and even the men involved, looked uncomfortable, unhygienic, and was probably utterly exaggerated and unrealistic. It wasn’t even well lit, making the ‘actors’ look as if they were made from plastic. Pornography doesn’t interest me, and I certainly don’t find it stimulating. And before you ask, it goes for both homo- and heterosexual pornography.”

Before John can in any way censor his tongue, “What do you find stimulating, then?” slips out.

Sherlock straightens and gives him a long look John can’t decipher. “Intelligence, sincerity, puzzles and riddles. Cycling, to some extent. Bees – not physically, of course, rather intellectually. I like their organisational skills, their sense of community. Some smells are good, others put me off. Certain sounds are all right, others cause the exact opposite. Music, some of it. Certain tactile impressions.”

“Not people?”

Sherlock’s eyes narrow. He looks thoughtful, as if choosing his next words with care. “Very rarely,” he says after a long pause.

The question whether Victor Trevor was one of those select few burns on John’s tongue, but this time, he doesn’t voice it. He feels he has already pried too much, without divulging any information about himself in turn – although Sherlock hasn’t asked, either. He licks his lips, nods. Sherlock shifts, looking a little uncomfortable. With a sudden, jerky movement, he raises his head and clears his throat, as if about to make a speech.

“Umm, John, you should know that I consider myself married to my work – and cycling. While I’m flattered by your interest, I’m not looking for any kind of—”

John interrupts him by holding up a hand. “Whoa, wait a moment, Sherlock. I wasn’t,” he shakes his head, “I wasn’t coming on to you, okay? We’re teammates. Friends, too, maybe. Hopefully.”

Sherlock still looks like a deer in the headlights, but eventually relaxes slightly, obviously reassured by John’s expression. Internally, John curses himself. Because, if he is totally honest with himself, he did test the waters a little. To get shot down so blatantly ... not what he expected, not after Sherlock’s behaviour towards him these past few days, and particularly this afternoon. Disappointment is warring with relief. He watches Sherlock, who inclines his head, but continues to look troubled.

“Friends,” he repeats slowly, as if tasting the word for the first time. “I don’t think I ever had a _friend_ before,” he then admits.

“About time, then,” replies John, smiling in what he hopes is a reassuring manner. “Listen, Sherlock, I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable, and I’m certainly not making fun of you. What you said, about the things that you find stimulating ... Actually, they sounded really nice. Thoughtful. Not what an ordinary bloke would have replied, but then again, you aren’t. Ordinary, I mean. You’re quite extraordinary, and I mean this in a total not-hitting-on-you way.” He reaches up to run a hand through his hair, winces because unthinking, he used his dominant left hand with the injured elbow and shoulder, and huffs. “And I think I’d better shut up now.”

Sherlock continues to watch him. He looks mollified, though. Eventually, the corners of his mouth even twitch up in a tentative smile. “Yes, I think that would be for the best, John.”

He heads off towards the ensuite, but turns in the door to look back at John. “Thank you,” he says gravely.

“No problem,“ replies John. He waits until Sherlock has closed the door before letting out a long breath and silent curse. _Shit shit shit, this is not how this was supposed to go._ But then ... Sherlock seemed so unsure of the situation, and particularly himself. Once again, John entertains the thought that Sherlock can’t have a lot of experience with relationships, and what there were, were probably ... well ... not very good. Perhaps this was a self-defence mechanism. And as a let down, it was actually rather kind. _  
_

John decides that first of all, he has to decide what _he_ wants. And only once he is clear, he can consider how to woo Sherlock, if that is what his introspection turns up as a desirable pursuit.

  

**– <o>–**

  

Even though the air-conditioning should make the temperature of the room comfortable, John has difficulty falling asleep. It’s too cool to sleep without a blanket, but even the light duvet seems to press onto his injuries. Normally, John falls asleep on his back, which doesn’t quite work because of his bandaged thigh and arse-cheek. He is not in pain exactly, rather, the dressings itch, his shoulder throbs dully, and every time he shifts, something twinges. He tries reading _The Guardian_ online, but can’t concentrate, and is moreover pissed off by news about the orange idiot in the US, and the more familiar morons back home messing up Britain’s future by their inept handling of the Brexit situation. The attempt to watch something on Netflix on his tablet is thwarted by the unstable WiFi connection. It worked fine for a while when he was scrolling through twitter and tumblr, until most of the guests retired and turned on their devices, and now it has almost died.

They have drawn the curtains, casting the room into darkness. Sherlock has fallen asleep quickly, curled up on his side with his back to John, and John doesn’t want to wake him by switching on a light to give his novel a try, or at least look at the autochromes in his photography book. He shifts again, curses under his breath at the burning sensation in his thigh, and resist the urge to scratch the wound.

“You can turn on the light, if you want, or open the curtain,” mutters Sherlock, his voice half-muffled by his pillow. “I don’t mind.”

“Sorry for waking you.”

“Was thinking, not sleeping.”

John chooses not to point out how Sherlock seems to be breathing very deeply indeed while ‘thinking’.

“Perhaps I should have asked Sarah for some sleeping medication,” muses John, thumping his pillow angrily.

Sherlock sits up and turns to him. “Is it so bad?”

“Mostly uncomfortable, really. Also, I feel I need to sleep to survive tomorrow, but the longer I can’t fall asleep, the more I worry about not getting enough. You know how it is.”

“Indeed I do. Sometimes, my brain just doesn’t want to shut off. It’s aggravating. It really bothered me as a child and teenager, until I learned how to cope with it better.”

“How do you cope with it?” asks John. “Not with drugs, I hope.”

“Occasionally, yes, in the past, although cocaine doesn’t exactly work as a soporific. But no longer. I really am clean, you know. I have something better. Will you allow me to try it on you?”

“Um ... depends on what you have in mind, I guess.”

In the semi-darkness of the room Sherlock’s teeth flash when he smiles briefly. “Nothing unseemly, never fear.” He casts back his blanket and leaps out of bed, suddenly wide awake. John watches him flit through the room and open the curtains, letting in orange light from the streetlamps outside. John hears him shift a few things, claps are popped open, followed by the unmistakable sound of a violin string being tugged gently, followed by another. 

John begins to laugh softly. Something about Sherlock’s sudden eagerness touches him. “You’re going to play for me? Seriously?”

“Unless you don’t want me to,” comes the reply, suddenly cautious, defensive.

“No, no, by all means, do play. I’d be delighted. I wouldn’t want to keep you from your sleep, though.”

“I won’t play all night, only until you’re asleep,” returns Sherlock.

John smiles. This is quite unexpected, and really rather nice. Settling on his right side in a position which least aggravates his injuries, he listens to Sherlock tune the instrument, before playing a short experimental melody, and tuning some more.

“Hope this hotel has good sound insulation,” muses John. Sherlock only laughs. “Who cares. I will play something soothing. Any particular wishes?”

“Apolcalyptica,” quips John, at which Sherlock sighs. “Their music is for cello, John,” he explains pedantically. “And not exactly what I would call soothing.”

“I know, you berk. I don’t know much about classical music. Guess you’re more of an expert, so just play what you think is appropriate. I won’t complain. Oh, and could you turn down the air-con a little, please. It’s a bit fresh like this, with only my pants and t-shirt on, and I’d rather not cover my legs with the duvet.

Sherlock does as asked, before walking over to the window. After a short while of simply plucking the strings and obviously trying something out, he begins to play. It’s nothing John thinks he has ever heard before. It is soothing, though, somewhat wistful and quite sad and haunting at times, at others joyful in a reserved way, broad and expansive like a river in summertime, then fast and sprightly, like its tributary leaping down from the mountains. In fact, it reminds John of the Tour de France, the different landscapes it passes through, the people on whose lives it touches every year. There are the plains of northern France and Belgium, the windy coasts of Brittany and the Atlantic, the heart of France as represented by endless sunflower fields. There are the green hills of the Massif Central, remains of volcanos that died long ago. The violin describes the high mountains of the Alps and the rougher, wilder peaks of the Pyrenees. John can see the sun-kissed coastal hills of the Côte d’Azur and of Provence in his mind’s eye. The music recalls the air smelling of lavender, thyme and rosemary. It speaks of the dark, resin-scented pine forests of Corsica, the salt-flats of the Camargue populated by white horses, black cattle, and thousands of flamingos, of the moon-like, wind-blasted wasteland surrounding the peak of Mont Ventoux. It conjures up the final, elated stretch of the Champs-Élysées in Paris ... He’s seen them all, over and over again. They’re in his legs and his heart. And he will miss them when this Tour is over.

His heart overflowing with the music and the memories it evokes, he wonders briefly who may have written it, before realising that the composer is no other than Sherlock himself, and that apparently, he is making things up as he plays. It’s experimental yet confident at the same time. And technically, as far as John feels able to judge this, highly proficient. _The man truly is a genius,_ thinks John, suddenly glad that Sherlock can’t see his face. _And he is composing this music for me right now, just to help me sleep. This is ... remarkable, touching, wonderful._

John swallows against the sudden lump in his throat, and sniffs softly. Running a hand over his eyes, he is not surprised at finding them slightly moist. Nobody has ever created something this personal and profound for him, he is certain of it. And another certainty presents itself with startling, shocking clarity. He is not attracted to Sherlock Holmes. Not the way he was attracted to his previous partners, even Sarah. This is something else, something deep and important and altogether new and scary – scary most of all. There is no denying. He is riding on a steep descent towards falling in love with the man. And he’s not sure he’s got any brakes on his bike, or whether they’d work if he pulled them now. He doesn’t even know if he’d really wants to pull them if he could. He’s too tired to think of the implications of all of this. He only knows that right now, he is happy, surrounded by his memories, wishing the music would never end. Smiling to himself, he falls asleep.

 

 


	5. Stage 3: 10 July, Waregem to Compiègne, 236,5 km, Plain Stage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Again thanks a lot for the feedback on the last chapter, and for your patience. RL doesn’t leave me a lot of time for writing at the moment. I hope that this will improve come May. This chapter contains some bullying by the tabloids. Not sure if this needs a warning, but ... yeah, consider yourselves warned.

John wakes to orange-tinted darkness and a sense of confusion due to a strange, nonsensical dream that involved Sherlock trying to outcycle a stand of flamingos and never quite catching it. Shaking his head, John reaches for his phone to check the time. It’s shortly after 4 am. He groans, rubbing a hand over his eyes. His bladder announces that a visit to the toilet would be a good idea. With a deep sigh, he shifts into a sitting position, careful of his injuries and also not to wake Sherlock. He does a double-take when a glance at the other bed reveals that it’s empty. The door to the ensuite is open and the bathroom dark.

Frowning, John gets to his feet and studies the surroundings of Sherlock’s bed. His mobile is gone, the charging cord still plugged in the power socket, though. His shoes are still next to his bed. John scratches his head in confusion. He must have left the room, but why? In the middle of the bloody night? Not even the downstairs bar would be open at this time, and Sherlock doesn’t seem the type to hang out there, anyway.

_You know another reason why he might have woken and taken a stroll outside,_ a dark voice in his head reminds John. Back when he started out as a professional rider, encountering cyclists walking up and down hotel corridors at night, or doing rounds in their rooms wasn’t so unusual. It was that, or risk death from thrombotic embolisms because of EPO misuse or blood-doping. Movement helped to keep the blood flowing at night and prevented blood clots from forming in blood with artificially raised haematocrits. But it also meant that those cyclists were almost constantly sleep deprived, as well as running the danger of being caught as dopers, even though it was an unspoken rule not to mention to the authorities who you met in the corridors at night.

_But Sherlock wouldn’t dope like that, would he?_ muses John as he hobbles over to the door leading onto the corridor. _It’d be too ... ordinary. Also, he said he was clean._

_Yes, of cocaine. He didn’t mention other substances or doping methods. He is too clever to use EPO, but what about enriching his blood with his own red blood cells, harvested earlier after spending time in an altitude chamber, or actually training somewhere high up in the mountains? If he keeps an eye on his haematocrit, it could work ..._

_Shut up,_ John commands his doubtful voice when carefully, he opens the door and sticks out his head. The corridor is empty. John’s shoulders sag. What did he expect? For Sherlock to pace up and down on the stylish carpet, muttering to himself? He closes the door again, stands for a moment thinking, then remembers he needs to piss. 

After finishing in the bathroom, he steps over to the window. Sherlock hasn’t drawn the curtains again after his violin concert. John gazes out over the cobbled square. The cafés and restaurants are closed for the night, their windows dark, chairs and tables stacked up and chained together, or put away. The square is deserted – almost. Spotting movement in a dark corner, John smiles faintly when he discovers a cat helping itself to something spilled on the ground – ice-cream, perhaps. John watches it for a while, wondering whether it’s feral or belongs to somebody. Suddenly, the cat’s head shoots up. John follows its line of sight and finds himself leaning closer to the window. A dark figure has entered the square from one of the narrow lanes leading up to it and is quickly flitting across towards the hotel. John can’t see its face because the head is covered by the hood of a jumper. But he recognises the pyjama bottoms and the large, bare feet. 

“What on earth were you doing outside the hotel in the middle of the night, you nutter?” he whispers. “And without shoes, too?”

Quickly getting into his bed again and arranging himself on his undamaged side, John covers himself with the sheet and closes his eyes. His heart is beating quickly and he tries to calm himself by breathing deeply. Soon after, the soft click of the door announces Sherlock’s return. He slinks into the room and quietly moves over to the ensuite. John hears him use the toilet, then water running, something small falling to the floor, and a soft curse. Soon after, Sherlock leaves the ensuite again. John smells a whiff of the hotel’s soap. Probably, Sherlock washed his feet in the sink and knocked down something standing on the rim as he balanced on one leg. John suppresses a smile. The soft rustle of cloth indicates Sherlock taking off his jumper. His mobile pings dully when he plugs it in again. He slips into bed, shifts around a little until he is comfortable, and lies still. 

Silence descends on the room again. John continues to pretend he is asleep, although in fact he is wide awake. It’s difficult with his heart still racing. And of course Sherlock notices. 

“I know you’re awake,” he says suddenly, his voice a low rumble. “And have been for some time.” 

John exhales, shifts onto his back and turns his head towards the other. Sherlock is lying on his back as well, his hands steepled on his chest, looking like the solemn effigy of a long dead king. “Where have you been?” asks John. “I saw you outside.” 

Sherlock turns his head towards him, his eyes glinting faintly in the dim light from the streetlamps. “What do you think?”

John licks his lips. “To be honest, I have no idea. Had you just been out on the corridor ... well, there’d been a possible explanation.” 

“Blood doping? EPO?”

“Yep. Haven’t seen anybody do midnight rounds for a while, but that doesn’t mean all the chaps are clean.”

Despite the darkness, John can see Sherlock’s frown. “I told you _I_ was clean,” he says defensively.

“And I believe you,” John assures quickly. “Still, you have to admit that you running around barefoot in Ghent in the middle of the night is more than weird. So what did you do? And why at this time of night?” He tries for a bit of levity. “Not sure if there are any wild raves or parties out there, and if there were, I doubt they’d admit you barefoot and wearing pyjamas. And you don’t strike me as the kind of bloke to sneak out for ... you know, carnal pursuits, particularly after you said that you’re not really interested in that kind of stuff.”

Sherlock doesn’t reply immediately. John wonders whether he has insulted him. Sherlock lies unmoving, possibly trying to decide how much he can trust John, or if he can be bothered to continue their conversation at all. Eventually, he draws a deep breath and releases it slowly. “There was something I had to check. It concerns another team, accommodated not far from here.”

John has even more questions now. He doesn’t even know where to start. “Okay ... but why at night? And why the fuck didn’t you wear any shoes? Or proper clothes? Your pyjamas, really? What was that all about? Sleep-over? Pyjama party?”

Sherlock huffs exasperatedly. “I needed to be quiet and remain, if possible, unnoticed. Barefoot meant I was able to walk soundlessly. It was better for climbing, too, as I forgot to bring footwear suitable for that kind of thing.”

“Climbing?” John sits up in bed, staring at him. “Seriously? What the—”

“Yes, up the drain. Hence the pyjamas, too. I needed clothing that allows great freedom of movement. My suit trousers are too tight. I brought them without taking into account that clothing suitable for exercise apart from cycling would be required. I didn’t want to put on cycling shorts as this would have meant changing, which could have woken you up,” Sherlock explains calmly. John can’t be certain because of the relative darkness, but he thinks Sherlock is smirking. Apparently the berk is enjoying himself.

“What? Are you out of your fucking mind? Why on earth would you climb a drain? At four in the morning. In fucking Belgium.”

“It was rather three than four. Also, I couldn’t just saunter into the lobby and announce myself, could I? Although come to think of it, I could have pretended to sleep-walk. I’ll keep that in mind. But the main objective was to remain unnoticed. Do try to keep up, John.”

“It’s the middle of the bleeding night. I should be asleep. _You_ should be asleep. I shouldn’t have to keep up at four in the bloody morning because my roommate is an utter lunatic – which, by the way, I understood on day one. So why—”

“It has to do with a case,” Sherlock interrupts him with a trace of impatience. “I’m not just here to win stages and accrue a collection of stuffed lions and yellow jerseys. I’m actually working. Satisfied?”

“A case? What case? This is the Tour de fucking France.”

“Yes indeed. How well you follow. Still, this fact doesn’t rule out criminal activity. I’d say it rather encourages it,” Sherlock offers, sounding amused. “Can’t you guess what this is all about?”

John thinks for a moment, tries to make sense of everything he’s learned about Sherlock so far. “I don’t know. Could be anything, really. Tax fraud, infidelity, libel ...”

“Or?” prompts Sherlock, and now he is definitely smiling. John can see his teeth. It’s a feral smile.

“Something to do with doping, perhaps?” he ventures.

“Very good, John. It’s too early to confirm anything, of course, meaning I can’t tell you more as of now. Sadly, my expedition tonight didn’t provide me with the proof I hoped to find.”

“So you’ll slip out tomorrow night as well?”

Sherlock smiles faintly, lifts his steepled fingers to rest under his chin. “Perhaps. I missed my chance the previous night because I was too tired.”

“Oh, poor you, falling victim to base human traits,” quips John. Sherlock snorts, but doesn’t appear offended.

“So you joined this team to investigate another rider’s misbehaviour?” John wants to know. “You’re enduring one of the world’s toughest cycling races to play detective? That’s ... something, I guess.”

“I don’t _play_ detective. It is my job. And I’m very good at what I do. But the investigation, interesting though it doubtlessly is, was not the only reason. Once the idea had been sufficiently ... sold to me, and I had started to train in earnest, I realised I wanted to ride the Tour one more time.”

“To see if you still had it?”

“Yes.”

John nods. He thinks he understands perfectly. It’s part of the reason why he still endures this circus and all the hardship that comes with it as well, year after year, each time hoping that he’ll be among those chosen to be included, to be picked for the team, his trepidation of missing out mounting the older he gets. “Was this the only reason? To prove to yourself that you were still fast and strong enough to take on the younger riders?”

Sherlock tenses. “What are you implying, John?”

John shrugs. “Well, you know I overheard your conversation with Victor Trevor, heard his accusations. And yours. Is he the one you’re investigating?”

Sherlock looks at him. John isn’t sure of his expression. “As a means of exacting revenge for past hurt?” Sherlock then asks. “How petty would that be?”

John shrugs. “People do things like that all the time. Petty or not.”

“Yes, they do, don’t they? Stupid things, I’d say. But I’m not _people,_ ” spits Sherlock. “I’m not out for revenge on Victor. That’d be a waste of time. Also, as I said, he is not the only one to blame for how things stand between us, as convenient as heaping it all on him would be for me. But I’m not interested in him. I’m not investigating a single rider. Nor even a single team. I can’t say more at the moment. As for Victor ... I may dislike him now, and he me, and I have a suspicion that he’s had some chemical – or rather biological – help during his training in preparation for this year’s Tour, but he’s too clever to use anything during the actual race. I don’t care whether Victor uses his asthma medication to speed recovery now and again. I’m fairly certain he is clean otherwise. It’s an honour thing for him, not doping, or at least it was in the past. Perhaps his attitude has changed now that he is approaching retirement age.”

“Ah, you mean he doped himself up over the winter, and then trained to maintain the level of fitness he achieved that way?”

“Probably, but unlikely. He wouldn’t be the first, and won’t be the last, but as I said, Victor used to be very outspoken against doping, and now that he has made himself into a brand, he can’t really afford to lose the public’s trust. That said, Russia and China are not the only nations with state-sponsored ... performance enhancement. Ever wondered why suddenly, British athletes have been doing so well in all kinds of disciplines in many of major competitions? You don’t achieve this sudden boost of excellence with sports promotion, sponsorship and training programmes alone.”

John has indeed wondered about it, but decided not to go deeper, because he knows he won’t like the results. He lies down again, folding his hands over his belly. He thinks about what he has just learned and can’t help chuckling softly.

An irritated “What?” comes from the other bed.

John laughs some more. “Nothing. It’s just ... you spending your nights playing detective—”

“I _am_ a detective,” comes the irritable retort. “I told you, it has nothing to do with fanciful ‘games’.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. Sorry. But don’t you think this is a tiny bit ridiculous?”

“No.”

John gazes at him, his put out expression visible despite the gloom, and smiles. “I guess you don’t.”

Sherlock huffs. “Well, John, if you think this is all child’s play, why don’t you accompany me in the future? I could use a partner, anyway.”

John’s eyebrows shoot up into his hairline. “You’re inviting me to run around barefoot in the middle of the night, and to climb up drainpipes with you wearing my pyjamas to ... what ... break into other teams’ hotel rooms to look for suspicious bags?”

Sherlock studies him calmly. “Basically, yes. Shoes are optional, though, as are proper clothes. I think I might order something for further expeditions and have it delivered to our next hotel. In a few days, we will even be sharing accommodation with one of the teams in question. Surveillance should be easier then.”

John stares at him incredulously. “You realise I was joking, right?”

Sherlock’s eyebrows draw together in a frown. “Well, I wasn’t.”

John shakes his head in disbelief. “Are you out of your mind?”

“No more than you.”

“But what about ...,” John makes a helpless gesture, “sleep? We can’t run around every night looking for ... whatever it is you’re looking for. We supposed to be well-rested for the stages. They’re hard enough as it is.”

“Neither of use is riding to win the race, John. This is more important.”

“Says the man currently in yellow.”

Sherlock waves an impatient hand. “I’d be lucky to wear it up until we reach the Alps. In fact, I foresee handing it over after today’s stage. I’ll attempt to win another time trial, maybe the second one, too, to truly earn my keep on this team, but that will be it. As for you, you’re at your best when you’re in a breakaway. As long as I’m wearing the yellow jersey, you won’t be allowed to attempt a stage win as you’d be required to work for me. Not what you expected from your last Tour, I am certain. I promise not to disturb your slumber if you plan on riding solo the next day. Speaking of rest, perhaps we should get some more of that now.”

John laughs. “Yeah, because I’ll be able to sleep now, after you’ve invited me to join you in the craziest undertaking I’ve ever heard of.” He sobers up a little. “You really want me to help you? I have no experience as a detective.” He is not actually considering joining Sherlock, he really isn’t. It’d be utterly mad, and dangerous, and even madder than that. But it could also be ... great. No, strike that, it _would_ be great. And the fact that Sherlock wants him to tag along, that he trusts him enough to confide in him ... it’s hugely flattering.

“Experience as a detective isn’t necessary in your case. Your experience and status as a professional cyclist is, though. You know almost everybody in this year’s Tour de France, down to organisers and staff. You also know many of the old timers who have moved from active cycling to functioning as brand ambassadors, _directeurs sportifs_ , or work for broadcasting networks. You are familiar with many of the towns and cities we’ll be passing through, and the hotels booked for the teams. Your knowledge of the race and everything surrounding it is invaluable to me, as is the fact that unlike me, you are generally well-liked and trusted.”

John swallows softly at the compliment. “Uh ... thanks, I guess. I’m not saying I’ll join you on any midnight expeditions, but I will try to help you.” Staring at the dark ceiling, he chuckles to himself. “God, this must be the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever done.”

Sherlock laughs as well, a deep, rumbling sound John finds very pleasant. “And you used to compete in downhill races during your mountain-bike days.”

John grins broadly. “Only when I was a teenager, before I switched to cross-country, and then to road cycling.”

“Still, you can’t deny you’re a bit of an adrenaline junkie. I’ve watched footage of some of last year’s Tour stages, and some other recordings of our team’s performance. I’ve seen how you ride in the mountains. You’re one of the best descenders I know. You’re one of the few riders who on the descents can actually gain back the time you lose on the climbs. Few people have your courage, matched by your impeccable balance and control of the bike. In addition, there is a streak of recklessness, almost abandon when you ride downhill. It’s impressive and quite exhilarating to watch. Obviously, your time riding these cumbersome mountain-bikes was good for something, after all.”

John positively preens at these words. He knows he’s good on the descents, but to hear it from someone like Sherlock, who usually is so sparing with praise, is actually really nice. “Cheers,” he mutters.

“No need to be modest, John. And now, good night.”

With that, Sherlock shifts onto his side, his back towards John. John watches him for a while, before setting down as comfortably as his injuries allow. “Good night, Sherlock. And thank you for earlier. When you played for me, I mean. It really helped me fall asleep. But in a good way. It wasn’t boring, is what I’m trying to say. It was ...,” he swallows, searching for the right word. Eventually, he settles on the most obvious. “Beautiful. It was really beautiful.”

Sherlock is quiet, long enough for John to wonder whether he’s fallen asleep already, until a soft, “Thank you, John,” betrays he is still awake. “Any time.”

Smiling at his back and the mop of dark curls, John closes his eyes.

 

**– <o>–**

  

The next morning, John and Sherlock are just about to leave their room for breakfast when there’s a knock at the door. Sherlock opens it, revealing Lestrade, Donovan, and Anthea, the team’s PR and press person. All three look troubled. Anthea is carrying an iPad and a stack of papers. Frowning, John gazes at Sherlock, who has drawn himself up, his expression stern and impenetrable. He must have deduced the reason for the visit and concluded that its not a pleasant one.

“ _Daily Mail,_ I see,” he says coldly, inclining his head toward the papers. “Who else?”

Greg sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. “A good number, and not just British ones. Mostly tabloids, of course, the usual suspects. German _Bild,_ our _Sun,_ some French papers, and a Belgian one. And it’s all over the internet.”

John looks from one to the other, his confusion mounting. “What is?”

Sherlock grabs one of the papers and holds it out to him. It’s today’s copy of the _Fail_ , featuring a grainy pap shot of a much younger Sherlock, looking strung out with hollowed cheeks and haunted, dark-ringed eyes, his lower face sporting a three-day shadow, his hair greasy and longer than it’s now. He is wearing jogging bottoms and a dirty hoody, and a pair of old trainers just short of falling apart. He looks like a homeless person. The shot, taken with a strong telephoto lens, shows him entering a run-down, graffiti-sprayed building with a skip and some bins in front of it in a dirty alley. The headline taunts: “Flying High, Falling Low: The Dark Secrets Of England’s Man In Yellow”.

The tabloid promises an exclusive account, citing a ‘reliable insider source’. Scoffing, but unable to fully hide how much this troubles him, Sherlock looks over the other broadsheets Anthea has laid out on one of the beds. “‘Exclusive’ indeed, he scoffs derisively. “Wonder who copied from whom here.”

“ _Fail_ and _Sun_ are the worst,” says Anthea, “at least as far as I can judge. The French and Belgian papers simply rehash the _Fail._ As for the original source, it’s difficult to determine. Nobody really names their sources – understandably, because most of what they write are clear fabrications and overdramatisations, included for their potential shock value. I haven’t had time for research yet, but I would estimate that the original source is to be found online, although this here _,_ ” she holds up the infamous German tabloid _Bild,_ “appears to feature some variation of the ‘news’. My German is a little rusty, though.”

Sherlock leans over _Bild_ to read the article. The featured image is the same as in the _Daily Mail._ But whatever is said in the German tabloid causes colour to drain from his face. His eyes narrow dangerously, and his mouth becomes a thin line. He is both shocked and angry, that much John can tell. His German is rudimentary at best, so he looks at Sherlock expectantly, waiting for a translation. “What is it, Sherlock?” Sally Donovan wants to know.

Sherlock sniffs as he straightens. “Oh, nothing,” he says airily, his grim expression betraying his true emotional state. “Unlike _Sun_ and _Mail,_ who mostly enthuse about my druggie past and its potential implications for whether or not I’m riding clean now, our German friends go a little further.”

He pauses for dramatic effect, before pointing at the headline: “Homo Holmes? Die perverse Wahrheit über Englands neuen Radsport-Star” His German, as far as John can tell, is almost flawless.

John frowns at him, and Sherlock explains. “They out me as a homosexual, and moreover indicate that eleven years ago, I accosted a teammate in a way that could be construed as sexual assault.” He looks into the round, his confusion, fear and anger plain to see. It’s a look that doesn’t suit him at all, and John’s heart cries out for him.

Sherlock turns away and swallows, obviously fighting for composure. After a moment’s hesitation, John steps closer to him and raises his hand behind Sherlock’s back, not touching, but nevertheless a clear indication that if Sherlock wants the physical comfort, he can simply lean back a little. And to John’s surprise, he does, briefly. “They shy away from labelling me a sexual predator, but only just,” he continues, turning to the others again. He frowns, before, inexplicably, he starts to chuckle darkly. The others exchange confused glances at this seemingly misplaced humour.

“Sherlock?” prompts John.

Sherlock turns to him, shaking his head. “This is absolutely precious. A sexual predator, _I_? Well, no wonder, I reckon, with my ‘insatiable sex-drive and preference for disturbing practices.’”

“You?” asks Lestrade, his eyebrows almost swallowed by his hairline.

Sherlock snorts. “Of course not. Sex is the last thing I am interested in, and it’s always been like that. I’ve never touched a teammate inappropriately, and only once appropriately, if you want to call it that. After months of dancing around each other, I kissed him, and he kissed back. Enthusiastically, I may add. No sign of lack of consent. There wasn’t any alcohol or other mind-altering substances involved, either. What happened after, however, was that said teammate attempted to ... further things between us, and I refused. If you want the whole truth, I panicked and pushed him away. At the time, I may not have communicated my state of confusion and the feeling of being absolutely overwhelmed by the situation in a way he understood. He was hurt, felt rejected, I assume. Things turned ugly between us as a result. He accused me of leading him on, and that was one of the nicer things he said. He started to publicly link me to drugs soon after.”

“Victor Trevor?” Anthea wants to know. Sherlock deflates. He swallows again and inclines his head. “Yes. Nobody ever learned about what truly happened. Victor was careful to hush it up, didn’t want to be associated with me in any way beyond the fact we were teammates, mostly to maintain his strictly heterosexual appearance in the public eye. Until now, that is, although what’s written in these,” a dark glance at the papers, “is mostly lies – or rather, a very selective, twisted version of what truly happened.”

“Do you think Trevor is behind it?” asks Sally. She looks thunderous, ready to punch a few people and kick their balls to Kingdom Come.

“There are some things only he could have known,” offers Sherlock, speaking slowly and carefully, obviously deep in thought. “Ever since this race started, Victor hasn’t hidden how much he dislikes me. During our ferry crossing, he actually threatened to make me quit the Tour. John overheard our conversation. But this ... the article ... it’s not his style, because of the way it’s written. You wouldn’t be the only person, Anthea, who’d think of him when reading these allegations. Victor is bisexual, but he’s always been extremely careful to hide this, parading a string of girlfriends for the press, spreading rumours of elaborate wedding plans before this Tour commenced. Perhaps he really is about to get married. I couldn’t care less. But I’m sure you’ll all agree that blabbing about his past association with me would be extremely counterproductive in this context. I would rather put him down as the source for the articles the other papers printed, about me using illicit means to enhance my performance. Back during my other Tour he also spread this kind of misinformation about me, although he was careful not to get caught doing so. He just dropped a few careful hints here and there, and the press saw to the rest. Interestingly, there are several aspects of my past, particularly what is alluded to in _Bild_ , and copied by the _Fail,_ he can’t have known.”

John has skimmed the _Daily Mail_ article in question. “They mostly go on about the drug habit you developed after your ‘exploits’ during your last Tour. It’s said here you went to rehab twice, and moreover sold yourself to finance your addiction. The picture, the article says, is proof of how low you’d come at some point, and that the place you were about to enter was a well-known hang-out for junkie prostitutes at the time, before it was demolished some years ago.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrow dangerously. “Oh, this is clever,” he says softly. “Very clever indeed. They sell a bunch of lies, but with kernels of truth. Like the very best of Fake News. That way, people will swallow them all the more easily. Create an outrage by picking on those who are marginalised, different. Do they also describe my mental instability?”

“Their ‘trusted insider’ calls you a psychopath, and quotes several ‘specialists’ who ‘analysed’ you as a child, when you first spent some time in a mental institution.”

“How very creative. Wonder if they had to look up the word before they used it. This is actually much better than what I got ten years ago. I was just a sad junkie unable to cope with his sudden success then, now I am a psychopathic, perverse, predatory, doping homosexual whore.”

“And a cheat,” adds John. “Says so here.” He points at the relevant section in the article.

Sherlock gazes at him and smirks. Despite the seriousness of the situation, John has to grin as well. “Impressive indeed. This must be my career high, and it’s only the third stage of this year’s Tour.”

“Would you please take this seriously, Sherlock,” Lestrade interrupts him sternly. He looks dead tired and deeply worried. “This is really bad for us. Listen, the entire team stands behind you. We know that this is a load of bullshit aimed at upsetting you and us. But we can’t let this stand. This is clearly libel.”

Sherlock shrugs. “Then sue the papers.”

“You don’t want to know who put these dreadful rumours into the world?”

Sherlock fixes Lestrade with a sharp, penetrating gaze. “Oh, I do,” he says softly, his voice a dark, dangerous rumble. Goosebumps rise on John’s bare arms. “I do want to know, and I will find out. But I need to do so on my own, you understand? You know why I’m here, Lestrade. What I’m working on. You know I have certain ... connections and resources at my disposal I may be loathe to use, but which I will employ ruthlessly when the need arises. As it does now, as I’m sure we’re in accord. I will include finding the source of these rumours in my investigation. And I want John to help.”

“John?” asks Lestrade in astonishment.

“Yes. I trust him.”

Lestrade exchanges glances with Sally and Anthea, before looking at John, who shrugs. “I’d be glad to help. I’d really like to find the arsehole who did this, too. You are right, this isn’t just about Sherlock, this is about our entire team. Also, the editor of shitty _Bild_ should really be taught a lesson. Those implications that all homosexuals are predators are fucking disgusting.”

“I’ll contact the papers and websites the articles originated from and threaten hellfire if they don’t take them down, or print an apology in their next editions,” promises Anthea, her smile a thin, hard line. “You know I have resources, too. They should have chosen somebody else to mess with. I’ll also write a statement for our website and the major media outlets.”

Greg and Sally nod grimly. Anthea is certainly well connected, and has fought more than one legal battle on behalf of the team in the past. “You do that, Anthea,” says Sally, her eyes glinting dangerously.

Lestrade still looks troubled. “What I would like to know, though, is where they got that photo from,” he muses. “It doesn’t look Photoshopped, apart from the colours, perhaps.”

“That’s because it isn’t,” admits Sherlock. “The disguise was for a case. Undercover investigation.”

“Of a drug den?” Lestrade wants to know, his voice sharp.

Sherlock shrugs. “Something like it.”

“And you did what? Method acting to fit in?”

“I was clean at the time, as I am now,” returns Sherlock angrily. “Drag me to the authorities for another test, if you don’t believe me. I needed all my mental faculties intact for that case, and I hadn’t touched cocaine for over a year at the time. In fact, I hadn’t been long out of rehab. What you see there is costume, make-up, a couple of sleepless nights, and calculated lack of nutrition to look a little strung out. It was all controlled. After I solved the case, I burned the outfit, took a long bath, shaved, ate enough calories for a mountain stage in the Alps, and slept for two nights. Happy?”

Lestrade deflates, running a hand through his hair. “Not really, no. But I believe you. I doubt the fucking press will, though. Not to mention the public. What a bleeding mess.”

“What’s the mood in the team?” asks John. He really wants to know, but he also wants to give Sherlock, who has begun to pace the room like a caged tiger, a little break from all the attention, and from having to constantly explain and defend himself.

“They’re outraged, but stand behind you, Sherlock,” explains Greg. “They know these articles are utter rubbish. Also, some of them take this attack quite personally, seeing it as not just aimed against you, but the entire team. I had to stop Irene from penning a furious attack on some of the websites, and Kate from burning a few online trolls on twitter. I’m going to brief them in a moment, when we’re all assembled downstairs, and inform them about our strategy – for the race, and for coping with the press. I don’t know if you still need a moment to yourself, but breakfast is ready, and there’s a difficult stage ahead. We just thought we’d inform you before you run into any members of the press. Anthea is going to write an official statement, and I’d strongly advise you, Sherlock, and the other riders not to talk to the press before that’s out. After breakfast, we have a short transfer to Waregem where today’s stage begins where we can talk about our official reaction to this crap – as a team, not as individuals – before you face the wolves. Okay?”

Sherlock inclines his head. “Thank you,” he replies gravely. “Could I have that moment now?”

Lestrade nods quickly and begins to usher Sally, Anthea and John out of the room.

“John stays,” commands Sherlock. Surprised, John hesitates. Sherlock shuts the door behind the other three and spins round, his hands steepled under his chin. He looks more intrigued than angry now.

“Sherlock?” enquires John.

Sherlock holds up a hand, silencing him. “Thinking.”

“Still want me to stay? If you need to think I could ...” He motions towards the door.

“Yes,” mutters Sherlock absently.

John nods and heads to the door.

“Stay,” says Sherlock, drawing his phone out of his trouser pocket but not dialling or messaging, simply holding it in his hand. He doesn’t quite look at John, his gaze flittering here and there. He is nervous, John understands. He believes he has become quite proficient at reading this enigmatic, contradictory man.

With a deep breath, Sherlock draws himself up, his gaze focused on John. “Why do you trust me?” he asks, his voice and expression stern.

John is taken aback. “I ... don’t know. You just said you trust me, so ...”

“It isn’t mutually inclusive. So far, I haven’t given you many – if any – reasons to appear trustworthy to you. I constantly withhold information about my past. I avoid answering your questions. You caught me sneaking out in my pyjamas in the middle of the night and had to take my word concerning my purpose and destination. You haven’t seen any of my health reports or blood samples as proof whether I really am as clean as I claim. And yesterday I accosted you stark naked under the pretence of having forgotten my towel, which, under certain circumstances, could be construed as sexual harassment or at the very least indecent exposure. By all accounts, I could be the world’s greatest liar, crook, doper, drug-addict and all-around arsehole.

John jerks up his chin to return his gaze steadily. The stand looking at each other until Sherlock begins to fidget, shifting his phone from hand to hand nervously, and finally dropping his gaze. John smiles, then laughs softly.

“Yeah, you could be all that. Liar, arsehole, doper, junkie, sexual predator. But I know you aren’t.”

“How? You have no proof whatsoever.”

“Wrong.”

Sherlock frowns. “Explain.”

“I may not be able to read and deduce people the way you do, but I ... well ... I know people. How they tick, these things. I would say that you have a rather ... oblique approach to truth sometimes, but I wouldn’t call you an outright liar. You’re a very private person, which is totally cool, and also understandable, given how much shit has been flung at you over the years. So if you don’t want to reveal things about your past, who am I to pry? You’re a bit ... odd, but in a good way. Interesting, I mean. Unique. Not scary. As for drugs and doping, ultimately, that’s your private business, too, your own body you damage.”

“Wrong. If I were exposed as a doper, it would hurt the team, and therefore you.”

“Yes, true. But I do believe that whatever you used in the past, you respect this team enough not to take anything now that would damage its reputation if it came to light. I’m not yet sure what it is with you and Mrs. Hudson, but from what I’ve seen so far she seems to really like and trust you. And she knows people even better than me. If she’s comfortable with giving you a second chance and having you on the team, that’s more than good enough for me.”

Sherlock continues to watch him critically. John ploughs on.

“The sexual predator ... well, I’ve no idea what you intended with the towel stunt. It was ...,” he waves a hand in the air for lack of an explanation that doesn’t sound as if he’s coming on to Sherlock again, and curses the blood that’s rushing into his cheeks. “Unexpected. Bit weird. Bit funny. But in the end, nothing unusual or indecent. We’re roommates. We have massages in our hotel rooms where we’re mostly naked, we share bathrooms. It does happen that you see your room- or teammate naked, you know. It’s no big deal.”

John shrugs, feeling embarrassed despite his words. “And ... well ... I didn’t _have_ to look, did I?”

“But you did. Look.” It’s not a question.

John is sure his cheeks are flaming. He makes an effort to keep his eyes locked to Sherlock’s. “Yeah,” he admits. “It just ... happened. Curiosity. I don’t know. I didn’t want to ogle you or make you uncomfortable.”

“You didn’t. But in the spirit of full disclosure, I had no intention of ... seducing or in any way harassing you,” says Sherlock stiffly. “I really just needed a towel, and as you know, I’m not used to company when my accommodation is concerned. I didn’t think it would be an issue. It only occurred to me later that you might have misunderstood, or been embarrassed by my action.”

John raises his eyes to the other’s and grins. “I know. And it isn’t. An issue, I mean. It happens when one’s sharing such close quarters, and I’m no prude. As you can see, I’m still alive and well, even after I’ve seen your cock and arse. You’re not a sexual predator – and I hope you don’t think I am one, because I looked. Actually, Sherlock, and please don’t misunderstand this, and forgive me if I word this wrongly somehow ...,” he bites his lip. “Actually, I think you’re quite—”

“If you are looking for labels, I’ve already told you—”

“I’m not looking for labels. I’m not going to label you in any way. That’s up to you, if you think you want or need one. But from what I’ve learned about you in the short time we’ve known each other, I think that a) sex isn’t one of your priorities, not in the way it is for many others, including myself. And b) that it ... I don’t know ... scares you a little. Wrong word, perhaps. Unsettle might be better. Perhaps it’s the touch, or the intimacy. I don’t know. Perhaps you’ve only had shitty encounters in the past and decided it’s not worth the effort. Perhaps you’re just not interested in that kind of thing – which is totally fine, by the way. It’s just ...” he shrugs helplessly. “You don’t strike me as the kind of bloke who’d proposition or harass another person sexually. At all.”

To his surprise, Sherlock doesn’t look offended or upset. He watches John keenly, but his eyes are kind. There might even be the faintest of smiles shining in them. “Thank you, John,” he says, gravely but with a hint of amusement. He doesn’t confirm or deny anything John said. John takes this as a sign to stop making assumptions about his sexuality altogether, and to change the topic.

John smiles at him. “No problem. Oh, and concerning the potential arsehole part. We’ve already been through that. You’re not an arsehole, however hard you pretend to be one. No selfish, calculating arse would compose absolutely spectacular violin music for his aching roommate in the middle of the night, just to help him sleep.”

“Oh, but you are wrong there, John. It was absolutely selfish.”

“How so? Needed me asleep so you could sneak out?” 

“Yes. Also, I required some rest before my night time expedition, and your constant turning and sighing was getting on my nerves and keeping me from dozing off.”

“Git.”

“So, I’m not an arse, but a git, then?”

“Shut it. You’re the weirdest person I know, but you’re no evil psychopath. And now, can we get some breakfast, please? I’m starving.”

“You go ahead. I need to make a phone-call.” He makes a face as if this activity is one of his least favourite.

“Right.” John opens the door, but turns back to Sherlock. “You’re okay, aren’t you?” he enquires.

Sherlock looks at him gravely. “I am fine, John. I will be able to concentrate on today’s stage. I won’t be distracted while we’re out there, so stop worrying.”

John lets out a deep breath. Sherlock seems to have read his thoughts, knew, somehow, that he was thinking of James and his accident. “Good,” he says, and steps out into the corridor.

 

**– <o>–**

  

Even though Sherlock’s treatment by the tabloids and its possible ramifications for the team are clearly on everybody’s mind during breakfast and the transfer to Warengem, Lestrade manages to divert conversation and attention back to the task at hand. The weather report has warned of another hot day with a temperature of over thirty degrees. No thunderstorms are forecast, which, however, doesn’t mean that none will materialise as the day proceeds. The stage is the longest of the entire Tour, and while there is only one category four climb, the knowledge of having to cross several dreaded cobble-stone passages dampens the mood.

Normally, John would have opted for a breakaway. Riding on the _pavés_ alone or in a small group is safer than in the middle of the peloton, where even a minor lapse in attention can lead to a major crash. But since Sherlock is the leader in the general classification, and it’s in the team’s interest to keep him in this position, at least as far as the Alps, it would be counterproductive to send Team Speedy’s riders out in escape groups to attempt a stage win. They will have their slate full trying to catch other breakaways during the race, and ensure a safe and timely arrival for their man in yellow – and hopefully a more organised and less accident-prone sprint finish than during the previous day.

During warm up, John is treated once again by Sarah. All his scrapes are covered in antibacterial cream and Spandages to allow movement, and to keep sweat and dirt out of the wounds. John expects the stage to be a very dusty one, particularly on the _pavés_. And it’s going to be painful, with every jolt and bump of the bike aggravating his injuries. But, well, it’s the Tour. At least he’s got no broken bones. Larry Selden who apparently broke his thumb during yesterday’s mass crash is out of the race. The other rider who suffered considerable injuries, a young Frenchman from the Carrefour team, has signed in again.

_He doesn’t look fit, though,_ thinks John as he watches him stand with his teammates. He doubts the youngster is going to make it all the way through to Compiègne today. _Yeah, worry about yourself, old man. You might end up in the broom wagon, too._

John’s own teammates look grim and defiant. Lyons and Bainbridge seem the most motivated. Both survived the crash unscathed and are hoping to finally win a stage in a sprint finish. Sherlock has been whisked away to sign jerseys again. John watches him stand next to Kit, Trevor and the chap in the polka-dot jersey. Sherlock and Trevor are ignoring each other again, and are even being kept so far apart that conversation is impossible. John thinks it’s for the best, and wonders whether Anthea has had her hand in this arrangement. PR people of all three teams are nearby, and when reporters attempt to descend on both Sherlock and Victor, Anthea and the press manager of Trevor’s team CS Media step forward and take over. To his surprise, John is accosted by two journalists as well, one from _L’Équipe_ and another from _The Guardian,_ both asking about his injuries and how it feels to be the oldest rider in this year’s Tour now. Neither mention Sherlock and the allegations surrounding him, a fact John is grateful for. He even knows the French reporter, a regular correspondent on the Tour who speaks good English. He only asks questions pertaining to the stage at hand and John’s predictions for its outcome, as does his English colleague. John is happy to talk to them, and actually commends them on their approach, which seems to go down well.

  

**– <o>–**

 

Soon after, under a glaring noonday sun and the high-pitched cries of swifts piercing the air, the race begins. After the usual slow rolling in, almost as soon as the time starts running, the first riders attack. There is some shuffling at the front until a steady, motivated breakaway of two young Frenchmen forms. Nobody is eager to catch them, allowing them plenty of leeway as neither rider of the duo is a serious danger for any of the special jerseys this early in the race. As long as their lead at the finish doesn’t amount to more than two minutes, the amount of time the best of the breakaways is placed behind Sherlock (taking into account a potential time bonus for winning the stage), they could even be allowed to make it over the finish line and Sherlock would still be riding in yellow.

All in all, neither the breakaways nor the peloton trundling behind them make any effort to speed up the race. Due to the heat and the fact that a considerable number of riders suffered injuries the previous day, the average speed remains slow. Even on smooth stretches of road it rarely exceeds 40 kmh, while on the _pavés_ it slows even more. Everybody is careful, even mindful of the other riders, meaning that the first cobble-stone passages are crossed without incident. As expected, they’re a dust-fest, leaving those  riders near the end of the peloton coughing and retching and asking for extra water bottles. The usual flat tyres or damaged spokes occur which convey riders to the verges of the _pavés_ to wait for their team vehicle for a repair or replacement. Immediately, they are surrounded by curious onlookers who provide them with water or take stealthy selfies. Many of the spectators have been camping or barbecueing alongside the passages, treating the event of the Tour de France passing by as a holiday.

After about fifty kilometres into the stage, the breakaway has amassed an impressive lead of almost fourteen minutes, prompting the coaches of the sprint teams, as well as Sally and Greg to encourage their riders to pick up the pace. Slowly, kilometre by kilometre, the lead decreases, but unlike the first stage and the desperate hunt of Victor Trevor, the overall speed is still almost leisurely. On another gruelling stretch of _pavé,_ Lestrade informs John and Sherlock who are riding near the head of the peloton of a crash further behind involving Kit. He is unhurt apart from a few scrapes. His front wheel is badly twisted, though, after getting stuck between two cobbles, and he has to wait for the team’s car for a replacement. Gregson and Dimmock are staying behind to help him back into the peloton, but due to its moderate speed, Lestrade doesn’t expect any issues with them catching up again or not making the time limit.

After another hour on and off the cobble-stones, having passed two intermediate sprints which caused a bit of a stir because even though most sprint points have already been won by the breakaways, some are yet to be gained – Bainbridge wins the first, and Morstan the second – the peloton calms down again as they pass through the provision zone. To his surprise, instead of banking on his special status as the man in yellow, Sherlock loads his jersey full of food and water like the rest of them, and plays _domestique_ for a while, providing everybody on the team with extra water and energy bars. Anderson who is riding next to John when Sherlock hands him another bottle regards his teammate with raised eyebrows.

“Oh? What special service is this, then?”

Sherlock glares at him. “You want the water or not? Otherwise John can have it.”

“No, the water is fine. But this is not your job, is it? Or are you trying to present yourself in a good light after this morning’s press bomb?” Anderson nods towards the camera motorcycle riding nearby, filming them.

Sherlock makes an angry sound. “I simply do what is expected from me. Officially, John is the captain of this team. I’m just here for the time trials. And I don’t have to polish my image for the cameras, Anderson. I needed Molly to check something on my bike, fell back for that purpose, and while I was riding alongside the car, I got some more provisions. There’s another long _pavé_ ahead, meaning the cars will have to stay way behind the peloton. But if you prefer me not to help out with _domestique_ duties, I’ll gladly oblige.”

Anderson shakes his head quickly. “No, no, it’s fine. Great, actually. Thanks for the water.”

Sherlock nods stiffly and accelerates to overtake him. John cycles up to Anderson. “Nice work, Philip. Here’s he trying to be kind, and you shoot him down. Brilliant.”

“I did apologise, didn’t I? I didn’t mean to upset him.”

“I know. Still, watch your words, okay. This isn’t over yet. The shit with the press, I mean, and I fear it’s going to get uglier in the days to come. Imagine you’re the one they’re grilling. He’ll need all the support we can give him, okay?”

“Okay.”

 

**– <o>–**

 

Tension mounts again as the peloton approaches the Forest of Arenberg, of Paris-Roubaix fame. It’s the last long _pavé_ of the stage, and the first time the Tour de France includes the forest in its itinerary which caused a lot of discussion and media attention beforehand, given how dangerous this passage is. Greg informs the riders that they are about 45 minutes behind time due to their slow progress. Still, nobody seems desperately eager to increase the pace, even if this means more hours spent in the saddle and less time for recovery in the evening.

John is familiar with the area, generally known as “The Hell of the North”. The Trouée d’Arenberg is a staple of Paris-Roubaix – arguably the most difficult of the one-day races because it includes long sectors of _pavé_. The straight, cobbled road, constructed during Napoleonic times, cuts through the forest over a length of 2.3 kilometres. It’s narrow, the cobbles irregular (with often some of them missing because they have been dug out as souvenirs), and since the roads descends slightly, during Paris-Roubaix, the passage often becomes the stage for dangerous attacks. John has cycled in the impressive forest many times, mostly in the cold, wet, muddy conditions of the Spring Classics. In 2010, he crashed badly near the end of the passage, shattering his collar-bone and ending his season unexpectedly early. Two years later he managed to attack on the cobbles and break away from the peloton together with three other riders. They managed to reach the Velodrome in Roubaix without getting caught by the main field because it was held up by a crash. John came second that day, ceding victory to a Belgian rider only (who later that year was caught with suspiciously high levels of testosterone in his blood which cast a shadow on his earlier victories and making John the de-facto winner of 2012 Paris-Roubaix). In 2015, John came second again in this northern hell, losing to no other than Mark Morstan, arguably the best sprinter of the past few years.

His shoulder twinges as if in memory of his crash as they enter the forest now and his bike begins to shake and jostle over the stones. Like most other riders, he chose a special bike with a heavier, tougher frame for this stage, and tyres with deeper profile and less air pressure for better grip, nevertheless he wishes for the suspension of a mountain-bike. The cobbles seem to rattle his very bones. The road is straight as a ruler, descending very slightly, with trees rising cathedral-like on either side. Unlike in the spring, their canopy is dense and green now, offering welcome shade after hours of riding under the burning sun. Both sides of the narrow track are thick with onlookers cheering the riders on. It almost feels like a mountain stage, where cyclists are beset by spectators on both sides so that sometimes, one fears colliding with them. Colourful flags are waving into the riders’ faces, people are screaming in many languages. Someone empties a bottle of cool water over John’s head and back. It’s a teenager in a bright orange jersey who runs alongside John for a bit. John give him a quick, thankful smile.

Next to him, Sherlock rides. The track is just wide enough for two cyclists to ride side by side, if they’re careful. John notices that Sherlock is watching him, his gaze behind his dusty sunglasses grave and attentive. Despite the uneven ground, Sherlock rides surprisingly smoothly, this regular step hardly disturbed by the cobbles. John envies him a little as he grits his teeth against the pain.

“All right?” Sherlock asks at length. John barely hears him because of the noise of the people surrounding them, and the clatter of their bicycles.

John nods, aware how tense his jaw is due to pain and exhaustion. Sherlock must have noticed the grimace. “Hurts like the fucking devil,” replies John, indicating his shoulder, “but I’ll survive. The end is in sight.” He nods ahead, where the edge of the forest can already be seen.

Sherlock inclines his head and concentrates on the road again. John catches him stealing glances at him now and again, though, as if to check if John has spoken the truth. The knowledge warms him. Despite the pain, he smiles to himself. Sherlock really seems to be taking team spirit to heart today – unless this is a more personal thing. John decides not to dwell on the possible implications just now. He needs all his faculties to not fall off his bike.

 

**– <o>–**

 

Once the peloton has left the forest, the passage of which proceeded without accident or further damages to bikes or people, the riders’ relief is palpable. It’s plain sailing from now on, with only one category four hill to climb. The riders regroup and the teams reassemble after being strung into a long line on the narrow cobbled track, to now take up pursuit of the breakaway in earnest. Team Speedy’s once more takes the lead, aided by several sprinter teams who take turns in the wind. Slowly but steadily, the lead decreases until the breakaways are about five minutes ahead of the peloton. They maintain this lead for another hour, while the peloton keeps them on a long leash.

Then, with about sixty kilometres to go, things change. On a small incline, a rider attacks from out of the peloton: Sebastian Moran of Brook Consulting, who is immediately chased by Victor Trevor from Team CS Media. Catching the peloton by surprise and working together, they actually get away from the big group, and, still fresher than the breakaways at the head of the race, they manage to unite with them after another nine kilometres. By then the peloton led by Team Speedy’s are chasing them relentlessly. Trevor is a real danger for Sherlock’s yellow jersey, and as during the Kent stage, Sherlock seems determined to hunt him down. Despite his pains, John fully supports this. Unlike Sherlock, he is not convinced Trevor hasn’t had a hand in the bad press dogging his teammate.

Because a minor crash in the peloton slows it down for a bit, the breakaways still have a lead of over two minutes by the twenty kilometre mark. This is dangerous now, encouraging all sprinter teams to go full throttle. As during the first proper stage, Sherlock himself sets the pace, riding at the front of the big field with his teammates taking over at intervals. The kilometres tick by and at last the breakaway is almost in sight. Over the radio, Greg and Sally inform their riders that ahead, Moran has tried to get away from the other escapees, but was caught again by Trevor.

With two kilometres to go, on the outskirts of Compiègne, the breakaway is almost caught. The sprinter teams begin to jostle to get their men into a good position, which is difficult because the road is fairly narrow with sharp bends, and at about one and a half kilometres to go, there is another brief cobble-stone passage. John is still riding close to Sherlock at the head of the peloton. He knows the area well. Compiègne is the traditional starting point of Paris-Roubaix. Trevor and Moran have left their two French companions behind on the cobbles. The two youngsters vanish into the peloton, their time in the spotlight over. Moran tries to ride in Trevor’s slipstream for a bit, but has to let go near the _Flamme Rouge_ , unable to keep up with Trevor’s greater strength. John casts a glance over his shoulder at Lyons and Bainbridge, neither situated well enough to win the stage with other sprinters and their aides partly blocking. Morstan seems in a good position, as are the sprinters from Credit Suisse, Ferrero and Netflix. Trevor is sprinting now, with Moran desperately trying to keep up, but it’s obvious that he’s using the wrong gear, his acceleration is too slow. He won’t make it. But Sherlock might, with a little help.

“Follow me,” John yells to him, and sprints, punching the highest gear he can, his knees, elbow and left shoulder exploding with pain and his muscles screaming because of the high built up of acid during the last few kilometres. For a moment, he isn’t sure if Sherlock has heard at all. John sprints past a grim looking Moran, pulls even with Trevor for an instant, but the younger man is faster and stronger, and is moreover using his larger frame and longer legs and time trial stamina to his advantage. Just when John thinks he can’t go any further, a flash of yellow to his right makes his heart soar. Sherlock has used his slipstream to accelerate as much as he can, and now he soars past John, past Victor Trevor, towards the finish. John stops pedalling, lets himself be swallowed up by the sprinters surging up around him like a wave. He tries to catch the excited voice of the commentator over the cheers of the crowd when ahead under the banner marking the finish line, two thin arms in short yellow sleeves and large, black-gloved hands fly up.

John, too, punches the air with a whoop, grinning like a madman. “‘olmes, victoire pour Sherlock ’olmes,” cries the commentator. “C’est magnifique. Il est magnifique. C’est une surprise extraordinaire.”

In his earpiece, Sally cheers. “Wow wow wow, what a finish. Go, Sherlock. Yes, baby.”

“Bloody hell,” is Greg’s comment, half drowned by a cheering Molly who rides in the car with him. “What fucking nerves that man has.”

John doesn’t really notice when he himself crosses the finish. He might as well have flown across it, buoyed by a wave of euphoria. They did it. They thwarted Trevor yet again, and Moran, and all the fucking nay-sayers and arseholes of the press. Sherlock showed the world and particularly his enemies where they can stuff their hate and jealousy. Doubtless, there will be more rumours about potential doping, but only from people who don’t know how this sport works. This ... this was instinct and teamwork and excellent cycling, pure and simple. The commentator is right. This – no, Sherlock – really is magnificent.

 

**– <o>–**

  

Due to the chaos behind the finish, John only manages to catch a glimpse of Sherlock before he is whisked away for drugs testing and then dragged in front of the cameras. He waves at him and gives him a thumbs-up, at which Sherlock smiles broadly, gratitude and relief plain on his dust- and sweat-streaked face. On the large screens, John watches the slow-mo of the last seconds of the race, sees the two of them take on Moran who makes an obscene gesture when he can’t keep up. John sees himself as he pulls even and then past Trevor, sees Trevor putting in a last effort, to then be overtaken by Sherlock as he breaks free of John’s slipstream to fly towards the finish where, after a brief check over his shoulder, he throws up both arms in a gesture of utter joy and relief. Behind him, partly obscured by the other riders sprinting up, John can see himself punching the air in triumph while Trevor keeps his head down behind his handlebars. The commentator is still enthusing about the outcome of the race, and to his surprise, John soon finds himself surrounded by so many reporters that Mike and Sarah have difficulties getting to him.

“That was some spectacular teamwork, John,” a man from the BBC congratulates him, while representatives of ITV4, German broadcaster ZDF, France 2, Eurosport, and several newspapers throng around them, microphones pointing at John and cameras flashing. “How did you know your teammate Holmes had a chance, particularly as this was forecast to be a sprint finish?”

“Well, our two fast men, Stephen Bainbridge and Harry Lyons, weren’t ideally placed, and two breakaways were still ahead of the sprinters on the last metres. There was a time bonus to be won, so if Victor Trevor had been first across the finish line, he’d be the one in yellow now. Call it experience, call it luck, or just a good nose for an opportunity. An old geezer like me can’t outsprint men like Trevor or Moran. But our ace in yellow obviously can, so I saw to it that he had someone to pull for him until the last metre.”

“Indeed. It was quite the feat of him to be faster than top-sprinters like Morstan and Gonzalez – and your own Bainbridge – although he did of course have your help. Given the revelations about your teammate Sherlock Holmes this morning, do you still trust him to ride clean? Rumours are you are sharing rooms with him. How is that, then? How intimately does one get to know one’s roommate?”

John scowls at the reporter, who automatically takes a step back, indicating to John he must be looking ferocious indeed. “Listen closely, mate,” he growls, glaring into the cameras, “and feel free to forward this to all your colleagues, because I hate repeating myself: what’s been published about Sherlock this morning is part of a smear-campaign of the vilest kind. It has no grounds in reality, and whoever the ‘reliable insider source’ was who told this bullshit to the press is a fucking liar. Yes, I share rooms with Sherlock, and no, he’s neither a fucking predator, nor a junkie, nor anything you and your ilk are trying to paint him as. He’s a very private man with a fiercely clever brain, and a wry humour I really like. He’s clean, for all that I know, and that refers both to his blood samples and his bathroom habits. Whatever he does in his spare time, outside of cycling, whether he fucks around like there’s no tomorrow, or he’s celibate like a monk is not my concern, and really shouldn’t be yours. Neither should be who he takes to bed, if anybody. His sexuality – and that goes for any other rider in this Tour – is his own concern, not that of the fucking press, nor of the public. So what if he’s gay, or straight, or asexual, or likes doing it with unicorns. I couldn’t care less. He’s been hounded by the press ever since his first – and almost last – Tour de France. Ask yourselves why he hasn’t been seen in pro-cycling for so long. It’s your fault more than his. He’s a good rider, a brilliant one. He’s a good teammate, too, and if he considered me a friend, I’d call myself very fortunate. Leave him in peace and let him do his thing, okay? Stop making false allegations. Research what you show and print. We’re not fucking click-bait. We may be in the public eye right now, but we’re people, too. So treat us fairly, and stop publishing fucking lies about us. And now, excuse me.”

 

**– <o>–**

  

“Wow, John, how many f-bombs did you drop in this one interview?” Sally wants to know. “Must be a new record.”

John shrugs but doesn’t comment. The team is assembled in one of their hotel’s conference rooms and has just viewed the media coverage of today’s stage, as well as some of the reactions to the articles and features about Sherlock that were published in the morning. The atmosphere is ... odd. John can’t quite put his finger on what’s wrong. Everybody is tired, of course. He almost fell asleep during massage, despite the pain which seems to have spread through his entire body. He is dead tired, aching, and wants nothing more than his bed. But obviously, there are things the team needs to discuss. Even though Sherlock won the stage, John has an inkling that his action (and John’s, because the video footage shows clearly how the two of them worked together, and that it was John, not Sherlock, who initiated the surprise sprint and ultimate victory) didn’t endear him to all his teammates. Stephen Bainbridge, especially, seems miffed. He did congratulate Sherlock earnestly, but John knows that he had hoped to win this prestigious stage. The fact that Team Speedy’s has a man in yellow has meant extra work these past few days, meaning that on the last metres, reserves that might have been used to aid the team’s sprinter had already been depleted.

On the other hand, they needed the positive feedback from the press. Even those media outlets who jumped on the “let’s diss Sherlock Holmes” bandwagon the previous night couldn’t escape the sheer nerve and guile of winning this difficult stage in such a spectacular fashion. The photo of Sherlock riding across the finishing line with both his arms outstretched heavenward, his face alight with a broad, defiant smile is plastered across all major sports and news websites. Many have chosen to publish the moment when behind him, John can clearly be seen punching the air and whooping with joy. One of the Photoshop-wizards on tumblr has giffed the video and changed Sherlock’s hands so that instead of simply spreading them widely, he is showing the two-fingered salute to the world. Two news outlets (the less reliable ones, of course), used stills from that gif for their articles. Initially, Anthea wanted to send take-down notices to exchange the image for a real photograph, but desisted. And well for it. In John’s opinion, the manipulated images show what happened more truthfully than the original ones. Sherlock did show the world and all his enemies the fingers. Sherlock’s unexpected sprint and subsequent was an “in your face, arseholes” action, and John is delighted he was instrumental in bringing it about.

“We’ll have to wait to see how the tide turns over night,” cautions Anthea. “I expect the usual doping rumours, although the video-footage shows plainly that your victory was partly nerve, partly luck, and most of all good teamwork.”

“All my tests have been clean,” says Sherlock. It’s about the first time he has spoken since dinner. He looks tired, too, not just from the stage, but also from having to face the relentless press after his victory, who grilled him mercilessly about his past, his future plans, the accusations. His interviews in the news show that he managed to navigate the gauntlet quite skilfully – John is more than impressed by his fluency in several European languages, too – but now that he has had time to relax a little, the strain is plain to see.

“You know we believe you, Sherlock,” Greg assures him. “Are you sure about that step you said you might take to fight those doping allegations? It’s not too late to take it back, I believe.”

“I am sure. It’s the only way of silencing the allegations.”

Most team members exchange questioning glances. Sherlock draws a deep breath and sits up in his chair. “One of the conditions of being allowed to return to professional cycling and ride any UCI races was that for the past few years, all my biological data was closely monitored by WADA, as well as another independent Anti-Doping corporation. All my blood tests, training results, vitals have been recorded meticulously. There has barely been a day I was entirely unsupervised. There were several unannounced checks, some even at night. I wore a GPS trace all the time, like a common criminal. You can track my movements all over the world.”

Some of the riders whistle softly. All of them have been tested rigorously during training, enduring frequent unannounced visits by anti-doping agencies, their locations known to these organisations around the clock. The idea that Sherlock underwent an even stricter regime brings on looks of pity but also admiration. He appears to have taken his return to cycling very seriously indeed. John begins to wonder whether the case Sherlock said he was working on isn’t just an excuse. Sherlock has an addictive personality, no doubt. And cycling can be highly addictive. John knows this only too well.

“What are you going to do, then, Sherlock?” Gregson wants to know. “Release your results?”

Sherlock turns to him and inclines his head. “Precisely.”

He nods towards Anthea, who opens a file on her laptop to project a diagram consisting of dates and coordinates onto the large screen. Choosing a random month, she switches to the view of a map of the UK, more precisely of the Home Counties. What must have been Sherlock’s training rides in October 2017 are shown as coloured lines for every single day.

“What the—?” mutters John amid amused chuckles.

Sherlock blushes slightly, ducks his head. “I was pissed off by the constant surveillance that day,” he admits.

“Clearly,” states Sally drily. The team gazes at the blue line following Sherlock’s progress which spells ‘FUCK OFF’ over London’s roads.

“How long did you spend trying to figure out where to go to get that?” marvels Kit, looking suitably impressed.

“I know every street in London,” replies Sherlock.

“Oh, like the black cab drivers?”

“The Knowledge. Yes, I have it.”

“Wow.”

“Well, not sure if we should forward this to the press, though,” cautions Anthea. “It might give the wrong impression.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrow. “I am not interested in impressions. The press constructs their own. I want the truth out there, data that’s beyond doubt and reproach. It’s being sent to all major news outlets as we speak, so that nobody can claim they had to rely on ‘trusted insider sources’. The data should be all over the news tomorrow morning – at least of the more reputable outlets – and should put an end to the doping and drug use allegations, at least. As for the other things I have been accused of, I hope that Anthea’s threats of legal action due to libel will help. I am sorry that this team has been embroiled in a smear-campaign clearly aimed at blackening my name. I hope that my stage wins and leader position have at least compensated you financially. Oh, and Bainbridge,” he turns to the sprinter and fixes the young man with a keen gaze, “don’t blame John for how the stage ended today. The video footage shows clearly that you and Lyons were hemmed in by a number of other sprinters and wouldn’t have managed to free yourselves in time to sprint properly, due to the distance to the finish being so short. Without John’s quick thinking, either Moran, Trevor or Morstan would have won the stage, which would have cost our team yellow and you your second position behind Victor in the points classification. Like this, Morstan only came fifth while you were fourth, thanks to John effectively barring his way by simply letting roll and not sprinting anymore after I’d left his slipstream. You’ll get your chance another day. Aim for after the Alps. Trevor will lose green either tomorrow or the day after. The jersey should move to you, if you continue to do well in the intermediate sprints. Morstan will do everything to win tomorrow. He hit his season peak too early this year, meaning he won’t be in top condition after the Alps, whereas you actually need the mountains as the bit of training to achieve your best in this race.”

Bainbridge holds Sherlock’s gaze for a moment, before nodding and running a hand through his short hair. “Yeah, I know. Thanks for blocking Morstan, John. And I am happy for your stage win, Sherlock, and for the team’s good placement in the team classification. It’s just ... frustrating to always come second or third, with victory so close.”

“You’ll get your chance, Stephen,” soothes Sally. “Even though Morstan is billed as the best sprinter in this year’s Tour, mostly because of his experience and explosiveness, so far, you’ve been holding him at bay remarkably well. And I think Sherlock’s estimations concerning everybody’s fitness are spot on. There are flat stages between the Alps and the Pyrenees. The cards will be mixed anew then, because some of the sprinters won’t survive the high mountains as well as others. And now, let’s have a quick look at what to expect tomorrow, and then it’s bed for you, gentlemen. John and Kit look as if they’re about to fall asleep any moment, and I’d rather not have to carry your scrawny arses up to your rooms.”

 

**– <o>–**

  

Sherlock hasn’t arrived at their room yet when John finishes in the bathroom and slinks over to his bed. The hotel in Compiègne they’re spending the night in is less fancy than their last accommodation, but John likes it. He has been here before several times, mostly during Paris-Roubaix. The room is cosy, but small. The two single beds stand so close together as to only leave a narrow aisle between them. John sinks onto the mattress with a hiss and a sigh. If Sherlock has any crazy expeditions planned for the night, he can bloody well go alone. John just wants to sleep and not hurt for a few hours.

He has almost dozed off when Sherlock enters the room. John looks up blearily to see him read something on his mobile, his expression stern, his cheekbones accentuated by the light from his phone. He looks tired, not just physically, but emotionally, too. Understandable, given the eventful day. John doesn’t even want to begin to imagine how hurt and pissed off Sherlock must be, when John himself is already infuriated on his behalf.

“Hey,” John mutters groggily. “All right? Bad news?”

Sherlock’s head twitches in what could be a shake or a nod. “Just ... news. I’m tempted to disconnect my phone from both mobile services and WiFi tonight.”

John smiles as he shifts to better watch Sherlock. “That’s a wise decision, I’d say. But seriously, Sherlock, are you okay? Today’s been ... a lot.”

Sherlock switches off his phone and puts it on his bedside table. “I’ll survive. I should like to have a private word with Victor, but given he is accommodated somewhere across town and I’m in no mood to set out again tonight, that’ll have to wait.”

He walks around his bed and sits down so that he is facing John. His knees are almost touching the other’s mattress. For a moment, Sherlock simply sits there, his shoulders slightly slumped, his large hands in his lap, his head bowed. The sunburn on his nose has intensified. It glistens slightly, meaning he must have dabbed it with some Aloe Vera. It might be due to the dim light in the room, but to John the shadows under his cheekbones look deeper. John knows that ever since the prologue, he has been eating properly – quite voraciously at dinner, even. But he also knows what a toll the Tour de France exerts on even the fittest body and the best physical (and mental) constitution. And Sherlock doesn’t only have to battle physical strain, but emotional, too. The sudden desire to reach out and squeeze Sherlock’s hands in reassurance surprises John. He swallows.

“Do you really believe Trevor isn’t behind the crap in the press?”

Sherlock shrugs. “Not directly. But somehow, he must be involved in this as well. Anthea and others did some research for me today. Apparently the _Bild_ article borrows heavily from an old interview Victor gave after our last Tour together. Many of his words have been misquoted in the German tabloid, been edited or taken out of context, or simply – wilfully – mistranslated. But the gist of the interview still shines through. Victor was angry and disappointed back then. The Tour hadn’t proceeded in a way to justify the hype surrounding his person, nor had it gone according to his own expectations. Suddenly there was this young, inexperienced time trialist winning all the stages he’d had in his sights. Add to this what happened between us in private ...,”

He shrugs wearily and reached up to run a hand through his hair, tousling the curls so that they stick up funnily. John sits up in bed and shakes his head at the other. “You know you’re defending him, right?”

Sherlock gives him a sharp look. “I told you, Victor is not the only one to blame for how things went between us.”

“I don’t see why not. You said you fancied him, and apparently he liked you, too, enough at least for a quick shag.”

Sherlock flinches and blushes at the word. It’s strangely ... adorable, but also a little worrying, as it supports John’s assumption that Sherlock has had very few – if any – good experiences with sex. “I didn’t want to ... _shag_ him, though,” he offers, looking uncharacteristically embarrassed and out of his depth, and very young. “I believe that was the problem.”

“His problem, mate, not yours,” returns John, surprising himself with how sharp his words sound. “Listen, it’s perfectly fine to not want sex, and he should have accepted and respected this, instead of having a hissy fit that mutated into a bullying campaign against you just because you slapped his hand when he stuck it down your trousers.” John is getting angry now.

“He didn’t.”

“Didn’t what?”

“Stick his hand down my trousers.”

“I was speaking figuratively, Sherlock. So he did something else you didn’t want. And you told him to stop. And he pretended to be hurt and insulted, just because you initiated a kiss but didn’t want more than that. Kissing doesn’t automatically mean sex. You didn’t consent to him groping you – or whatever else he tried – and had he really cared about you, he’d have accepted this. You know, I think what happened between you was an attempt on his side to lord one over you when his prowess at cycling couldn’t match yours anymore. And if that’s true, it was a shitty thing to do. Hell, it was a shitty thing whatever his intention.”

Sherlock’s eyebrows draw together in a frown. “What do you mean?”

“I mean ...,” John runs a hand through his hair. This is delicate. Usually, since he’s not the best at talking about feelings and relationship stuff, he tries to avoid doing so at all costs. The only one he feels comfortable opening up to, at least to a degree, is Sarah. But there is something about Sherlock, a hint of vulnerability, inexperience, even naivety that compels John to lay things out for him as clearly as he can.

“I might have got this wrong,” says John, speaking cautiously, “but from what I’ve gathered about you and him, I’d say he was the first person you ... you know ... got physical with. Perhaps even the first you were really attracted to and felt encouraged exploring this kind of stuff with – although perhaps not entirely comfortable. You were out of your depth, and he took advantage of this. And then you turned him down, as you had every right to, and he twisted things so that to this day, you believe it’s partly your fault he became such a dick towards you.”

They gaze at each other. Sherlock’s expression is unreadable. “He was kind to me in the beginning,” he says at length, his voice quiet and a tad wistful.

“I don’t doubt that. Perhaps he even did try to genuinely befriend you. At least as long as you weren’t as successful as him, and remained the newbie reliant on his advice and tutoring, and he could continue to bask in your admiration. Who wouldn’t, I mean? You’re brilliant. But at some point, he should have manned up and accepted that you were at least as good as him, if not better, and not have sought a way to cut you down. But,” John shrugs, “who am I to talk? My track record with serious relationships is, basically, shit.”

Sherlock looks up from where he has been picking at a loose thread in his duvet. The smile he aims at John his tentative, but warm. “This makes two of us, then,” he states, and John laughs.

“Yeah, I guess. But at least we’re a pretty good cycling duo, don’t you think? The end of today’s stage was pretty spectacular.”

Sherlock’s smile broadens. “Yes, it was. You are a very shrewd tactician, John Watson.”

John grins. “Maybe. Rather a cyclist who’s learned to rely on instinct and experience, and who is a bit of an opportunist – and a ruthless arse, as I’m sure Moran and Trevor’d label me tonight. Almost twenty years of doing this shit must be good for something, right?”

“Quite right.” With a groan, Sherlock stands. Looking down at John, his features turn grave again. “Thank you, John,” he says earnestly.

“Any time, Sherlock.”

John is certain neither of them was just referring to good teamwork on the road, but to everything else as well. As Sherlock sets out in the direction of the ensuite, John lies back down, staring at the ceiling. He is happy. His entire body hurts, he is dead tired, he has the most unusual and slightly infuriating roommate, but he is profoundly happy. And this happiness is founded in no small measure on said roommate. Fierce protectiveness wells up in John. He’s not going to let this man be hurt by anybody. If John’s good standing with the press can help in any way to protect Sherlock from further attacks, he’ll gladly use it. And he’s ready to punch anybody who dares to spread lies about Sherlock.

Smiling grimly to himself, he falls asleep.

 

 

 


	6. Stage 4: 11 July, Villers-Cotterêts to Joigny, 193 km, Plain Stage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again thanks to all who are following this story and have left comments or kudos, and who are simply reading along. This is a shorter chapter than usual, again brilliantly betaed by rifleman_s. Hope you enjoy.

As far as John can tell, Sherlock doesn’t leave their room during the night, but sleeps soundly until morning. John wakes several times because of a mosquito whining or because he has to use the toilet, and each time Sherlock lies breathing deeply or even snoring softly. At one point he mumbles something John doesn’t understand. He suspects it’s in French, and wonders what Sherlock is dreaming. They both wake up around 7:30 to excited text alert sounds from John’s phone.

“What’s going on?” murmurs Sherlock groggily, his usually sharp mind obviously not quite online. John squints at his phone. He’s got several messages from friends and family, mostly his sister, and lots of twitter notifications. “Apparently there’s an article about me in _The Guardian,_ and it’s a nice one for a change,” he explains after reading through some of them. “Oh, and your vital statistics have gone online and have been snatched up by several sports websites and online papers, and there’s a lot of discussion surrounding them, too. From what I can tell – I’ve just skimmed the headlines – people’s reactions are positive. There are the usual idiots and conspiracy loonies, of course, claiming the numbers have been manipulated, but several reputable outlets are praising the step, calling it courageous and clever. A “tactical masterpiece”, says one expert, because it puts a lot of pressure on the other teams, particularly on their contenders for the general classification. Guess the step was a wise one.”

Sherlock has sat up in bed and has switched on his phone as well, scrolling through the newsfeed. He is staring at the screen with a slight frown on his face. “You are right, the article about you is very favourable. And apparently your good standing in the peloton and the fact you defended me so ardently elevated my status with certain publications. Thank you, John.” He sounds sincere, even touched. John takes is as a sign that Sherlock is truly grateful. 

He grins at Sherlock. “And there’s people saying an old geezer like me shouldn’t be riding professionally any longer. Guess I’m good for something, after all.”

“You’re good for a great many things, John,” replies Sherlock gravely. Immediately after, he frowns, as if realising what he’s just said, and adds, “particularly as a wind-break and fetch and carry person out during stages, not to mention as a sprint helper.”

“Piss off,” returns John, smiling fondly. “Things will change soon when you’re not in yellow any more and I’m team captain again. Then you can play _domestique_ for me, instead of sitting on your lazy arse and having me bring you sweeties.”

“Who tells you I won’t be riding in yellow until Paris?” challenges Sherlock with mock superiority.

“Hah, that would be a first. And while I think you won’t be altogether bad in the mountains, you said yourself you’re not riding to win the Tour.” He narrows his eyes, appraising Sherlock critically. “Are you?” 

Sherlock laughs and shakes his head. John is stricken by how young he looks with his tousled hair, despite his face crinkling up when he smiles like this. Gone is the cold, aloof demeanour, and in its place is a loose, almost carefree man, at ease with himself and his surroundings, who enjoys witty repartee and a bit of friendly banter with his roommate. _He’s rather adorable like this,_ John surprises himself thinking. _I wish I could see this silly grin more often.  
_

“No, winning the Tour de France is not something I’m endeavouring to do,” says Sherlock. “I expect to be placed somewhere in the top ten in the end. That’s realistic. The second time trial is going to be crucial, as, of course, will be the mountains. What about you? What are your aspirations, apart from reaching Paris in one piece.” 

John takes a deep breath. “A stage win would be nice, preferably after a breakaway. That’s my specialty, after all. There are a few stages where I might stand a chance, but I’m a realist, too. I don’t really believe it’s going to happen.” 

Sherlock gives him a strange, soft look. “What would be your dream stage to win?” 

“Champs-Élysées, of course. I’ve always wanted to win there. But it’s almost impossible. The final stage almost always ends in a sprint finish. And even during my best days, I couldn’t keep up with the top sprinters. It would have to be a perfect set up for me to win.” 

“Well, I won yesterday – with your help – and I’m no sprinter, either.” 

“Yeah, true, but I’m sure you’re faster and stronger than me, on the whole, not to mention younger.” 

“You’re the more explosive and experienced rider, and therefore more likely to spot a gap and use it – as you did yesterday.”

“Haha, yes, that’s true. But I lack end speed.” John sighs and stretches, then groans. His shoulder hurts, his elbow twinges, and his ribs are complaining, too. “Oh fuck, why can’t there be a rest day today? I feel as if I’ve been run over by a lorry. How are you?”

“A bit sore, but otherwise all right. I don’t expect much excitement during today’s stage. It’s mostly flat. There will be a breakaway and a sprint finish, but no major changes in the classifications.”

John hums as he continues to stretch, more carefully now. “Yeah, that’s what I think as well. Anderson might take a stab at these category four hills today. There are a few, and one cat 3. It’s a good way to collect points for the polka-dot jersey. Hope Stephen wins today. He seemed really miffed yesterday. Understandably so. Ah well.” He crawls out of bed. “Need the loo?”

Sherlock shakes his head absently, engrossed in something on his phone. With a smile, John sets off in the direction of the ensuite.

 

**– <o>–**

 

The stage unfolds very much according to John’s expectations. An early, determined breakaway made up of Anderson and the current holder of the polka-dot jersey as well as five other riders, distance themselves from the peloton. They collect what mountain points are to be gained, and those from two intermediate sprints. The peloton, still battle-weary from the previous, hard stage and the crash preceding it, trundles along. The overall speed is again fairly low, averaging around 40 kmh. There are two minor crashes that cause delays in the main field, but without any grave consequences for the riders involved, nor for the general classification. Team Speedy’s has their hands full once more trying to control the speed in the peloton. Because of the hilly profile of the stage and not wanting to risk any unpleasant surprises, they keep the breakaways at a short lead of about four minutes. Several other teams with sprint hopefuls help out now and again, particularly near the end of the stage when the riders have reached the hills near the river Yonne where there are some category four climbs. The breakaways are caught about twenty kilometres before the finish. Some minor escape attempts launched by single riders are thwarted almost immediately, so that the peloton reaches today’s destination, the small town of Joigny, as a large group.

The final sprint is fast and brutal, ending in a photo finish. Bainbridge comes second again, this time behind a young, formerly little known Chinese sprinter from Team Hisense. He is mollified, though, because he has managed to narrow the gap between him and Victor Trevor down to one point, meaning the green jersey is in immediate reach. Bainbridge has also increased his lead over Morstan by five points. Anderson hasn’t quite managed to win the polka-dot, but has advanced into the top three in this classification. Team Speedy’s is first in the team classification, with a narrow lead over Team CS Media. Sherlock remains in yellow and Kit, narrowly, in white, with only a few seconds lead over the Hisense sprinter.  

Since both Joigny and tomorrow’s start town Chablis are small with only few hotels, most teams and their retinue are accommodated in nearby Auxerre, a historic town situated along the river Yonne and known for its Cathedral and its Burgundian wines, particularly Chablis and the sparkling Crémant de Bourgogne. At dinner, to celebrate their lead in the team classification, each rider is allowed a little taste of the local vineyards, in addition to being served hearty _boeuf bourguignon_ as main course. John isn’t much of a wine drinker, but he likes to try the local specialties. It’s part of what makes the Tour de France so enjoyable for him: it’s like an extended holiday – for masochists.

Spirits are high because of the good results the team has achieved so far. During the traditional after-dinner team meeting, the strategy for the following day and the impending Alps is discussed. “Tomorrow would be the perfect stage for you, John,” says Lestrade, pointing at the hilly profile of the stage, which includes several category four and three climbs in the windy hills of the Morvan Plateau, and even one category two ascent to Haut-Folin, the highest peak of the region at around nine-hundred metres. “And I’d say try your luck in a breakaway, if you feel like it.”

His brief, critical appraisal isn’t lost on John. When preparing for the Tour, he’d already noted down this stage as one for him, if circumstances allowed. Normally, he likes hilly, varied stages like this. They’re perfect terrain for surprise attacks. A well organised breakaway has a good chance to make it through to the finish tomorrow. And John would love to be part of it. The thing is ... he doesn’t quite “feel like it”, if he is honest. His injuries still bother him, and he’s exhausted, more than he used to be this early in the Tour. The unrelenting hot weather, his crash, the hard work for his teammates, particularly Sherlock, have left residues. Also, more than in previous years, he believes his age has finally caught up with him. Recovery from the daily grind is slower than it used to be, despite Sarah’s expert treatment of his injuries, and Mike’s and Irene’s ministrations to ease his sore muscles after each stage. And this quasi-permanent exhaustion is nothing a good night’s sleep will remedy. A week of rest would suffice, perhaps. Tomorrow’s stage is going to be tough, and after that, in the Alps, every day is going to be an almighty struggle. He’ll work for his teammates as best he can, of course, but right now, if he’s perfectly honest, he’d be utterly grateful just to be able to arrive within the time limit each day.

With a sigh, he sits up straighter in his chair. He becomes aware that next to him, Sherlock has been studying him with a thoughtful, almost worried expression. “I’ll decide tomorrow, I guess,” John shrugs. “Right now I don’t feel a solo ride would be a good idea. I’ll just have to see how the stage develops, who tries to break away, and when, and if I’ve good legs tomorrow or not.”

“Tomorrow’s stage could end in a sprint finish,” puts in Donovan, “but given the number of climbs, it’s possible that a breakaway will get through. You could try to get into one, Stephen, and collect points in the intermediate sprints, which should be enough for green tomorrow. Andrew, Joshua, Jonathan, if John doesn’t feel well enough, if any of you three wants to go for a breakaway and a potential stage win, feel free to give it a try. Tomorrow could be your chance. As for you, Kit and Sherlock, just try to hold on to your jerseys as long as you can. As soon as we reach the Alps, as we’ve said before, the cards will be mixed and dealt anew.”

“You’ve done brilliant work so far, all of you,” adds Lestrade. “This Tour has been going better than expected and our sponsors are very happy. So there’s no pressure. Some more stage wins would be nice, and overall victory in one of the big classifications at the end of the race. But hey, even if none of the happens but all of us make it to Paris unharmed, it’d be a great result. So don’t overdo it tomorrow. The hills of the Morvan are just a little taster of what’s to come.”

 

**– <o>–**

 

Like most of the others, John retires early after the meeting. He actually nods off over his tablet sitting on his bed, and wakes suddenly with a crick in his neck when Sherlock flushes the toilet in the ensuite. It’s still light outside but the sun has gone down and dusk is gathering, John registers groggily while gently rotating his head. Their hotel is on the northern outskirts of Auxerre and overlooks a small park with tennis courts and an outdoor swimming pool on one side, and beyond that rows of trees, meadows and fields. John briefly considered taking a swim, but decided he was too tired.

“I feel like eighty,” he groans when Sherlock emerges from the bathroom, toothbrush in one cheek, and settles down on his bed. He peruses something on his phone for a moment. John wonders whether Sherlock actually heard him. Sherlock looks up briefly, studies him, before busying himself with his phone again, his toothbrush forgotten. Just when John reaches for his own mobile device, Sherlock holds it up for John. John scoots across the bed, takes the phone, and bursts out laughing.

“Oh my God. We’ve become a meme, haven’t we?”

Sherlock nods, grinning around his toothbrush, presently remembering it and continuing to brush.

John scrolls down the twitter feed. It contains variations of what he has secretly termed “their” victory photo, the one with Sherlock throwing up his arms at the finish in Compiègne, and John behind him punching the air in triumph. The creative people on social media have added various snippets of text to the photo, sometimes changing their outfits or headgear, or giving the other riders speech or thought bubbles. Most of the creations are hilarious, all are quite silly, some a little nasty, but in a funny way. John loves them. 

Shaking his head about some of them, John chuckles. “I think I still like the one where they made you show everybody the two-fingered salute best. Sums up the day perfectly, don’t you think?”

Sherlock shrugs, but then nods. He gets up to rinse his mouth. “It’s not over yet,” he calls from the bathroom.

“What is?”

“The smear-campaign to discredit me. This was just their first step.”

“What worse could they do? I mean, the biological data you had published is pretty clear, and very thorough. They can’t really get you for doping now, unless they fake your samples. But if they did, it would be highly suspicious. Have you seen the reactions today? Even the _Fail_ published an apology. Wonder who pulled the strings there to make them.”

“There are other ways to force me to quit,” says Sherlock, stepping out of the ensuite and switching off the light. “And they will attempt every single one of them, mark my words.”

“Who are _they_ , then? Do you have an inkling? You must have. And why you? You’re not even a serious contender for GC.”

“Perhaps not, but I’m uncomfortable for many.”

John thinks for a moment. “You think this is about your investigation? Think they know about why you’re really here?”

“Possibly.”

“What else could they do, then? Sabotage your bike? Poison your food? That’d be ... terribly dangerous, not just for you.” He frowns. “Well, guess this kind of people don’t really care about a bit of collateral damage, do they?”

“No, they don’t, and yes, it would be dangerous – for me, for my team, but for them as well. And yet I wouldn’t put it beyond them. Some of the people involved in this, people I am investigating, have a lot of money at stake in this Tour and everything surrounding it. They want their favourites to win, and want them to win with a white vest untarnished by doping allegations and whatever else I might dig up in my investigation. Also, don’t forget that several pro teams in this Tour de France are sponsored by Media corporations. There is CAM, the co-owner of which, Charles Augustus Magnussen Jr., is one of the GC contenders. His father, Magnussen Sr., owns most of the corporation, and he has a history of publishing questionable data to blackmail competitors. CS Media come to mind. They’re officially an Italian team, but one of their main sponsors is TV personality Culverton Smith.”

“What, the “Cereal Killer”?” 

“Yes. But don’t let yourself be fooled by his public persona – quirky TV personality, sponsor of major sports events, benefactor of hospitals and arts foundations and the like. He is an ice-cold businessman who always puts his own interests first. He and Magnussen have had some major fall-outs in the past. It’s rumoured that Smith took over sponsorship of this team in order to thwart Magnussen Jr.’s attempt to win the Tour.”

“You also have the Netflix team, and Hisense, but they have operated above suspicion so far. And there’s Brook Consulting, the biggest unknown as yet. Officially, they are into IT, but for the past year or so they have been trying to gain control of several broadcasting networks, or so rumour has it. Their true reach extends much further, I reckon. It’s exceedingly difficult to find reliable information about how far, and into what kinds of media they’ve invested, and why, what they intend to do with it. Nor can it be traced where all the money comes from, and to which extend people like James Moriarty hold personal stakes in the company. There are rumours that the CEO, one Richard Brook, and Moriarty are one and the same person, but that he is keeping it under wraps so as to concentrate on cycling. Brook is extremely private, and very little is known about him. Some people even doubt that he exists as a real person, and that in truth the company is run by others. It’s all very shady, and very interesting. I’m dying to find out more. Not for nothing did they choose a spider as their trademark. If one company has truly built a world wide web, it’s Brook Consulting.”

John nods thoughtfully. “But couldn’t you just do what they did, Smith and Magnussen and the rest, and tell fairy-tales to the press?” he wants to know after a while. “They’d lap it up, surely, like they did when this shit was spread about you. You wouldn’t have to concern yourself with the truth to damage their reputation, would you?”

“True, but this is not my style, nor would it do lasting damage. The people behind all this, John, are real criminals. According to rumours, Smith’s Italian co-sponsors have links to the Mafia. Other international criminal organisations have their hands in this pie as well. I’d estimate a quarter of all teams on this Tour are somehow involved with organised crime – without the riders and actual team members knowing. Sponsoring cycling teams – or sports teams in general – is a way for criminal organisations to launder dirty money. You don’t even want to know how much of that is invested in football. Compared to that, pro-cycling is a small fish. I’ve tried to gain access to financial information about several of these teams, find out who truly stands behind them, where the money comes from. But even with the resources at my disposal, which are ... considerable, I didn’t get very far. I don’t want to damage single riders. They’re not the problem here, but rather the victims. I want to get to the root of the crimes. But to do so, to get a foot into the door, so to say, I need irrefutable evidence.”

“But wouldn’t you be more successful at investigating their sponsors, then?”

“I’ve tried that, as I said, to little avail. They are too careful in their day-to-day businesses, the way they have set up and secured their financial transactions. I need proof of criminal activities, such as doping, that warrant a further, more in-depth – and official– investigation. I know it’s being done. They have become more careful over the years, naturally. Monitoring and testing is more sophisticated than it used to be. You don’t get away with a bit of EPO or testosterone now. But there are other ways to artificially enhance one’s performance. I just have to catch them in the act, in a way they can’t wriggle out of the situation.”

He sighs, lowering himself to the edge of his bed. “I thought it’d be easier, though,” he admits, running a hand through his hair.

“Cycling got in the way, did it?” suggests John.

Sherlock gazes at him, smiles wryly. “You could say that, yes. I didn’t expect to wear the yellow jersey. I was aiming to win a time trial, perhaps two, to earn my keep on this team and add legitimacy to my being here. I wanted to stay out of the limelight for the most part, to have my head free for the investigation. But these past few days have been a rollercoaster. The prologue, the press, the sudden responsibility. I didn’t sign up for any of it. It’s ... a bit overwhelming, to be honest.”

John laughs. “Bet it is. Must be quite a shock to the system, having been out of this circus for so long and then suddenly getting a full broadside. Of course, you didn’t have to win the prologue, did you?”

Sherlock frowns at him, as if this thought has occurred to him only now. “True,” he agrees slowly.

“Ah, but then Victor Trevor would have won, wouldn’t he? And you couldn’t have that.”

“Are you implying that irrational, loathsome _sentiment_ got in the way?”

John shrugs, grinning at him. “You tell me.”

Sherlock scoffs, but John can tell it’s for show. “I wouldn’t have minded had somebody else come first.”

“Just not Victor.”

“Yes.” 

“That’s ... childish and petty and perfectly understandable.”

“Is it?”

“Yes, considering your history, I’d say it is. I would have done the same.”

They glance at each other and simultaneously start to grin. “And I thought you were everybody’s darling on this Tour,” quips Sherlock. “So there is a dark side to John Watson?”

“I’m good at pretending,” quips John.

Sherlock studies him, nods. “I didn’t anticipate being so easily accepted by all of you, either,” he admits after a moment’s silence.

John smiles at him despite the small lump in his throat. There they are again, Sherlock’s insecurities shining through. “Well, mate, sorry for that. Should we have given you a harder time, then?”

Sherlock shakes his head. “Not really. It’s surprisingly enjoyable not having to fight every step of the way. Or is your amicable attitude towards me pretence as well?”

John rolls his eyes, is about to make a throwaway comment, when he notices Sherlock’s grave expression. He wasn’t joking. This is serious. He sighs. “No, Sherlock, it isn’t. I like you. As I said before, you’re ... odd, but in a good way. And I’m sure the others appreciate you as well, even Anderson and Bainbridge who may have a harder time showing it.”

Sherlock gazes at him for a long time, obviously searching his face for signs of lies. At length, satisfied, he inclines his head. “Good,” he mutters. John isn’t sure if it’s a trick of the light, or whether Sherlock is blushing slightly. He smiles. _You silly man, of course I like you. How could I not?_

Heaving himself up from the bed with another groan, he shuffles into the bathroom. Sherlock’s phone chimes with a text message.

“John.”

“Hmm?”

Sherlock doesn’t reply immediately, so John sticks his head round the door, toothbrush in hand. “What is it?”

Sherlock looks up at him, his face alight with a mixture of apprehension, determination and excitement. “Fancy a swim?”

“A swim, now?” John gazes at his watch. “Wouldn’t the pool be closed at this time?”

“Naturally. That’s the point.” 

“Sherlock ... what?”

“I have been invited for a little ... rendezvous, and I would like you to come along.”

“Invited by whom?”

“Victor Trevor.”

 

**– <o>–**

 

 _This is a bad idea, this is a bad idea, this is a bad idea_ plays in an endless loop in John’s mind as he and Sherlock make their way downstairs, towels over their arms, wearing swimming trunks under loose, dark clothing (Sherlock had indeed ordered some online – for John as well, obviously fully expecting him to take part in semi-legal activities). John has covered his abrasions with Tegaderm in case of actual swimming. He can think of a thousand reasons why this late evening expedition is a stupid idea. They’ll be breaking and entering for one – Sherlock hasn’t told him how they are actually going to get into the fenced in and locked pool area. There’s the possibility of someone spotting them. Worse, photographs could be taken and sold off to the press. Holmes and Watson having a clandestine night-time dip. The tabloids would have a field day. There’s whatever Victor Trevor might have in store for them. At the very least, there’s the possibility of complications with John’s injuries should infection set in should the pool water be contaminated with bacteria. Aware of all these potential disasters, at the same time John is almost quivering with barely suppressed excitement and nerves. His weariness and the pain from his injuries are forgotten, drowned out by a wave of adrenaline. Next to him, Sherlock looks grim, determined and excited, with excitement clearly having the upper hand.

“How did he get hold of your mobile number?” enquires John in a low voice as they flit along an empty corridor while trying to avoid the still populated restaurant and bar areas of the hotel.

“It’s on my website,” mutters Sherlock. “Through here.”

They enter another deserted corridor near the kitchen and laundry area, judging from the smell. It ends in a fire door which Sherlock holds open for John. From the outside, it’s secured by a number-coded lock. John is about to leave his towel in the door to prevent it from falling shut, but Sherlock smiles and shakes his head. “Good thinking, John, but superfluous. The code is 4321, as can clearly be deduced from the state of the keys. The hotel’s staff regularly use this outside space for their caffeine and nicotine breaks. Come on.”

John gives the lock a critical glance. To him, all the keys look the same. But he trusts Sherlock, who has crossed the small courtyard hedged in by hotel buildings on two sides, some greenery on the third, and the wall securing the pool area on the fourth. The small, secluded place smells of old cigarettes and chlorine.

“Are we going to climb over the wall or what?” asks John, eyeing it critically. It’s not a huge obstacle. He looks around for a security camera and spots one over the door they’ve just exited.

“Don’t worry about the camera,” says Sherlock, “or the wall. This way, John.” He dives into the hedge. Quickly, John follows. On the other side is a narrow path running between the wall of the pool area and a high fence, beyond which the tennis courts lie. They follow it for a while until Sherlock stops. “We’ll cross the wall here.”

“Why here? No surveillance?”

“Exactly. Need help?”

John gives him a beady glance. “I’ll manage, thanks.”

He does manage to scramble over the wall, albeit not without pain. Sherlock follows in a far more elegant and speedy fashion _(the lanky git)._ He studies John critically as he stands groaning and rolling his hurting shoulder, but thankfully refrains from commenting. Apparently, they’re the first arrivals. The pool is dark apart from the soft ambience glowing from the nearby hotel and the stars overhead. It’s actually rather large. On the opposite side is a terrace with deck chairs, and a small building containing showers and toilets. From somewhere up in the hotel, the noise of a television can be heard and muted conversation. There’s the gentle lapping of water against the sides of the pool, a faint rustle of trees, the hum of traffic on the nearby road. To add to the strange, stealthy atmosphere, bats are flitting about, and in one of the dark trees beyond the tennis courts, an owl hoots mournfully. 

Sherlock glances at his watch. “Our appointment is for eleven, so if you really want to swim, there’s plenty of time.”

John glances at the dark water. The air is still warm and slightly muggy. “Actually, why not, now that we’re here. Should be refreshing. You coming, too?”

Sherlock thinks for a moment, surveying their surroundings keenly, before shrugging and beginning to pull his hoody over his head.

John watches him for a moment, before forcing himself to tear his eyes away as more and more skin is revealed, swallowing against the sudden dryness in his throat. He peels off his clothes as well. It doesn’t escape him how Sherlock’s eyes linger on his body when carefully, he slips into the water where Sherlock is already paddling leisurely, hissing faintly when it hits his wounds. The temperature is just right, neither too cold nor too warm. John swims a few strokes, testing how his injuries react. When he is confident that the scabbed over areas will be fine, he begins to swim in earnest, crawl for a few lengths before changing to breaststroke. Next to him, Sherlock has done the same. Presently, he turns onto his back now and drifts with his arms outstretched, gazing at the starry sky overhead, his hands steepled under his chin like a sea-otter holding a crab. John mirrors his pose.

“This was a good idea,” he says after a while.

Sherlock smiles. “I have those occasionally.”

John chuckles softly and flicks water at him. To his surprise, Sherlock retaliates. Soon, they are engaged in an almighty water battle. John manages to dunk Sherlock several times by throwing himself on top of him, to then be pulled under the surface when Sherlock dives and grabs his legs. They emerge gasping and spitting water, grinning at each other. Sherlock actually laughs as he brushes his wet fringe out of his eyes, his face crinkled up in laugh-lines – and freezes at a sudden flash of light.

“Having fun, I see,” says a soft voice from the shadows. “Is this your new ... _friend_ , then, Sherlock?”

Momentarily blinded by the bright light, John squints at the dark figure which has emerged from the vicinity of the deck chairs to stand at the rim of the pool. It is pocketing what looks like a mobile phone. Next to him, Sherlock’s happy laugh is gone. He is standing in the breast-high water, his face carefully blank.

“Hello, Victor,” he says coldly. “You’re half an hour early.”

“Well, I could say the same of you, unless you wanted a little private dip in the pool before our meeting. Brought reinforcements, too, I see, your stalwart defender from the evil press. So sorry to disturb your little rendezvous, guys.”

“Cut the bullshit, Trevor,” John tells him, aware of how tense Sherlock is of a sudden. “What do you want?”

Trevor eyes him darkly, before lifting his chin. “To talk,” he says curtly. “To clear up some misconceptions.”

“Then let’s do that,” says John, paddling towards the rim of the pool where they have deposited their towels and clothes and heaves himself out of the water. Sherlock follows. Quickly, they dry themselves and dress. Victor melts back into the shadows of the small outbuilding, obviously keen to remain unseen. Only the blueish light of his phone betrays his whereabouts when he switches it on.

“Forwarding the picture you snapped of us to the tabloids, are you?” enquires Sherlock coldly as John and he draw close. Victor glares at him, his face briefly illuminated from below before he puts away his phone again.

“No,” he spits, “but perhaps I should if you continue to be such an arsehole, Sherlock.”

“Oh, _I’m_ the arsehole now, am I?”

Victor draws himself up. In the dim light the shadows under his eyes and cheekbones are more pronounced. The past days have left traces. His nose his slightly sunburned, too, and his wavy hair looks more frizzed and less shiny than at the start of the Tour. “I suggested we meet to clarify a few things,” he says archly. “But if you don’t want to, we can stop here and now and you can continue to play in the pool with your new best mate. I have better things to do.”

“Oh, so you contacted me out of the kindness of your heart?”

Victor laughs humourlessly. “Hasn’t the past shown that both of us are rather lacking in the heart department?”

Again glares are exchanged, until John clears his throat and steps between the two. “Okay, boys, that’s enough. You obviously have some things you wish to tell Sherlock, Trevor, and you, Sherlock, should listen, and then say your bit. I know for a fact that you wanted to talk to Victor here, too. So let’s get this over with. We all need all the sleep we can get to survive what’s in store for us in the days to come.”

For an instant, it seems as if his words didn’t register at all, but first Sherlock and then Victor deflates. Sherlock nods towards his former teammate. “Talk, then,” he commands, crossing his arms over his chest and glowering darkly at the other.

Victor narrows his eyes at him, draws a deep breath and releases it slowly. “I know you think that I was the one who sold this story to _Bild_ and the other rags. But I had nothing to do with it, I swear. I’d have to be a complete idiot to spill that kind of story to the tabloids.”

Sherlock cocks an eyebrow, clearly indicating that he thinks Trevor is an idiot, anyway. “Some of the things quoted – or misquoted – in the German article were based on events only the two of us can have known,” says Sherlock.

“Yes, I’m aware. And I have people looking into the matter. Even though my name wasn’t mentioned explicitly, not only people who remember what happened eleven years ago – or think what happened – were able to connect the dots, meaning this crap wasn’t only meant to damage you, but me as well.”

“You want to know who’s behind it?”

Victor cocks his head. “Do you know?” he asks quickly.

“No. I thought you might. Don’t pretend you didn’t also profit from the shitstorm, or at least enjoy it.”

Victor rolls his eyes. “Listen, Sherlock, this Tour is fucking hard enough as it is. I don’t expect us to become friends again—”

“Were we ever?” interrupts Sherlock. “Friends?” He sounds resigned and bitter.

Victor looks startled at the question. “I ...” His shoulders sag and his runs a hand through his hair. “I don’t know. I thought so, at ~~a~~ one time. More than friends, perhaps. But all this is in the past, and I guess too much has happened to ever put things right between us. And believe it or not, I’m not here to allocate blame.”

“Nor to apologise, apparently,” mutters Sherlock, which of course doesn’t go down well with the other.

Again the two men glower at each other. John looks from one to the other feeling out of place, like an intruder in an exceedingly private confrontation. And something else is stirring as well: in addition to the protectiveness he has felt for Sherlock from the beginning, there is the slightest hint of ... jealousy? Is it really that? The feeling is too vague to pin down. But watching these two face off reminds him that once, they were close enough to kiss, and more. How could Trevor have been so stupid? Having won Sherlock’s affection – a rare, marvellous thing to be bestowed on another human being – and then throwing it away. What a colossal idiot.

Licking his lips and clearing his throat, John breaks the strange spell fluttering between Sherlock and Victor like a living creature. “Okay, so it wasn’t you who sold this shit about Sherlock’s past and outed his sexual orientation to the rags. Let’s say we believe you. What do you want from Sherlock, then?”

Trevor bends his eyes on John and frowns briefly, as if irritated by the interruption or even his presence. John weathers his gaze stoically, lifting his chin in challenge. Soon, Victor turns his attention to Sherlock again. “I was hoping for information. I know your team has initiated legal proceedings against some of the papers, and possibly tracked some of the stuff in _Bild_ to an old interview of mine which was wilfully misquoted by the press. I’ve contacted my solicitor, too, just in case, and they’re considering legal action for libel.”

“Good for you,” comments Sherlock dryly. Victor bridles visibly, but reins himself in. John sighs and rolls his eyes. Sherlock is being a bit of a dick right now. It’s understandable. John would behave similarly. But it’s also childish and not exactly helpful.

To his credit, Victor tries again. “Listen, Sherlock, what I said on the ferry ... I didn’t seriously mean to threaten you. I was disappointed about how the stage had turned out, naturally, and how the prologue had ended. I wouldn’t actually sabotage you and all that, nor wish for you suffer serious injury, whatever my words implied. It’s not my style. What kind of a sportsman would I be if I had to resort to sabotage and violence to get rid of a rival? Of course I was suspicious of your surprisingly good performance. For someone who hasn’t done any pro-cycling for years, it’s a remarkable comeback. I still have my doubts, to be honest, and you’d be lying if you claimed you wouldn’t feel the same were our places exchanged. Releasing your data was a brave step. I’d rather fight things out between us in the next time trial than in some legal battle.”

“Do you suggest we should join forces to find out who is behind this shitstorm?” John wants to know, before Sherlock can reply.

Victor shrugs. “Something like it. I doubt any of us wants to spend more time than strictly necessary with the other side. Just ... exchanging information now and again, if we have it. That kind of thing. Our main sponsor Culverton Smith wasn’t too happy about the press and what was implied about me, particularly because every website and paper that jumped on the bandwagon is owned by Smith’s competitors. I don’t need to tell you that big money is involved in a sports event like this, and reputation is a valuable currency, particularly given how critically people are monitoring whether riders are clean or not, given the doping scandals of the past that brought down entire teams.”

“Do be careful with your asthma drug, then,” comments Sherlock, at which John jabs him gently with his elbow.

“Not helpful, Sherlock,” he hisses under his breath.

“I do have a bloody prescription,” growls Victor. “You can check with my GP, our team’s two doctors, the Tour’s directors, and WADA, because they all approved its use. This hot, dry weather and the high amount of pollen in the air is fucking up my allergies, so I actually have to use it more than usual. And had I really used it to enhance my performance – which I didn’t – it didn’t help me in the prologue, nor during those two stages I tried to attack, did it? You’re still the one in yellow.”

“Okay, all of us are clean,” interrupts John, eager to move this conversation along. “Got it. Now, you said your sponsor wasn’t too happy. So far, the press has mostly targeted our team and yours by singling out certain riders – although your name wasn’t explicitly mentioned. Surely you talked about things with your coaches and teammates, perhaps even your main sponsor. Do they have any suspicions who could be behind all this?”

Victor shrugs. “We have a rider intend on winning the Tour, so any of the other teams aiming for GC, really. Not all of them would go as far as starting a smear campaign like this to incapacitate or at least compromise riders. But come on, Watson, you’ve been around long enough to know the lengths teams go to be successful in a competition like this. And the internet and social media have upped the game. You can make or break a rider on twitter or instagram now, if you hit out hard enough, and the person in question really has stuff to hide.” 

Sherlock scoffs at this. “True. I could provide the press with enough ammunition to shoot down half the riders of this year’s peloton. Not necessarily for doping, but other things they’d rather not be made public.”

Victor eyes him with a hint of apprehension. “You still do that creepy deduction thing, then? Looking at people and reading their life story from the stains on their cuffs or something?”

Sherlock jerks up his chin defiantly. “Yes. Would you like me to have a go at you?”

“No. Been on the receiving end and didn’t enjoy it,” he says darkly.

“Oh, I don’t know. I thought it was rather brilliant when Sherlock deduced me,” states John airily. The corners of Sherlock’s mouth twitch up in an involuntary smile, which warms John’s heart.

“Did you?” comes Victor’s cold reply. His eyes wander from Sherlock to John and back. “Oh, I forgot, you two are ... _chums_ now, aren’t you? Bit of a warning, Watson, in case you actually consider starting something with this one? He likes to pretend and lead people on, and then chicken out when things get serious.”

Despite his carefully maintained façade, John can tell how the barb hits and hurts Sherlock, burrows under his armour. John bristles and draws himself up. “Listen, Trevor, Sherlock is my teammate, and more than that, he’s my friend. And he hasn’t been leading me on in that department, nor has he “chickened out” of anything being a good friend or teammate entails. And for the record, I’m not into blokes. But if I were, and interested in Sherlock that way, and he in me, the Tour de France wouldn’t be the right time or place to pursue that. To keep your nasty digs at us to yourself, or you’re no better than the fucking tabloids or online trolls. I’m sorry that whatever happened between you two made you into enemies. But you’re about to get married, right? So get over the past, and let Sherlock be.”

“He’s afraid I might spill the beans to his fiancée,” says Sherlock quietly. “She doesn’t know he’s not as straight as he pretends to be. Hence his dismay about the media coverage.”

“So what?” John turns to Sherlock briefly before looking back at Victor. “Ever had a look online, Trevor? There are countless fansites pairing sports persons with each other. I’m currently being shipped with Sherlock here, our coach Lestrade, Kit Hunter, Mark Morstan, Moriarty, Moran, some blokes I’ve never heard of and even know if they’re real, and even you in one instance. I used to be bothered by things like this, but I’m over it. It’s all a bit of a lark, really. Some kids having fun. Of course, the media is something else, but it’s 2018, and thankfully we live in a country where it’s not considered a crime being anything but straight. Come clear to your lady about your past, if you want my advice. There’s no shame in fancying more than one gender, and there’s certainly no shame in having fancied Sherlock Holmes, even if things didn’t work out between you. So please grow up, you two, and stop bitching around like this.”

He glares at a thoughtful Trevor and a somewhat shell-shocked looking Sherlock, before clapping his hands with a sense of finality. “That said, could we please wrap this up now? I’m dead tired, and my road rash itches somewhat badly from the chlorine. I need a shower, perhaps a snack, and then bed. We’ll let you know if we find out who’s behind the media mess, and expect you to do the same.”

Victor gives him a long, calculating glance. Eventually, he inclines his head. “Okay,” he says. “Sherlock?”

Sherlock blinks. John is under the impression that his mind has been somewhere else entirely these past few moments. “Yes. Fine.” He snaps out of whatever state he’d been in. “The photo you took—”

“I’ll keep. Call it insurance. But I’ll send you the file, if you like. We’re probably on CCTV anyway.” Victor looks around and shrugs.

“Nothing wrong with a night time swim, nor a civilised conversation,” says John. “Unless they want to charge us for breaking and entering.”

“We didn’t break anything, we climbed over the wall,” corrects Sherlock. “Same as you, Victor.”

Victor looks down his clothes. “What gave me away?”

“The scratches on your hand and the twig in your hood tells me you tried that privet hedge over there first, but found that a fence runs in its middle. You then skirted the hedge, found the path between the pool and the tennis courts – red ash on your shoes that spilled over onto the track when the courts’ surface was renewed recently – and scuff marks on your shoes’ tips from where you scaled the wall. A bit of bird shit on the inner seam of your trousers when you straddled it before jumping down.”

Victor snorts and shakes his head. “Still the freak,” he mutters.

“That’s enough, Trevor,” John shoots back.

Victor eyes him darkly, snorts, and stalks off. He easily scales the wall and vanishes into the darkness. John lets out a long breath and rakes a hand through his drying hair. Next to him, Sherlock stands still, his eyes unfocused. “You okay?” enquires John softly.

Sherlock doesn’t react immediately, before, “Yes, let’s go,” he snaps, and heads towards the wall.

They quickly make their way back to the main building. Sherlock seems in no mood for conversation, and John doesn’t force any, despite having questions. The number-lock at the back door presents no obstacle. Sherlock was right about the combination. They slip inside. John notices how Sherlock’s eyes linger longingly on the cigarette butts stubbed out in a coffee-mug next to the door. He wonders whether Sherlock developed a smoking habit in the years he was not cycling professionally. If he did, he must have ditched it again without lasting damage to his lungs.

Back in their room, John lets Sherlock take a quick shower and change into his sleepwear while he eats some nuts and almonds and half a pack of rice waffles, washing everything down with orange-juice. When Sherlock is finished in the ensuite, he rinses off the residue of chlorine on his skin and changes the dressings on his wounds. Now that the adrenaline from the night time expedition has ebbed away, he feels his exhaustion with increased vehemence, and almost collapses into bed. Sherlock has eaten and drunk something as well – probably because John left waffles and juice on his bed. He quickly brushes his teeth again, switches off all lights, plugs his phone in to charge, and lies down.

For a long time, neither of them speaks. John shifts around a few times. His body feels heavy, but he can’t seem to settle down.

Sherlock, too, is restless. Eventually “Thank you for coming along tonight, John,” he says into the soft hum of the air condition.

John smiles into the darkness. “Any time. Thanks for trusting me enough to invite me along.”

Sherlock is silent for a while, before, “You’re good at this. Diplomacy,” he ventures.

“To a certain point perhaps. After that I explode.”

Sherlock huffs softly. “I think I’d like to see that some time. You were quite impressive when you spoke to the press yesterday, and tonight with Victor, too.”

“I was being friendly on both occasions.”

“Yes, I understood. It would be interesting to see you become unfriendly.”

“But not very constructive,” mutters John. “When I was younger, I did have ... anger issues. Spoke my mind a bit too loudly too often. Didn’t make the best of choices a few times. My sister Harry and I had a major falling out when we were doing our A-Levels. Thankfully, we’ve managed to reconcile since. And our father ... he was ... difficult. Guess part of my anger came from that. Still does, kinda. I channelled a lot of that energy into sports. I had the reputation of being a bit of a bad boy during my mountain-bike days.”

Sherlock hums thoughtfully. “How did you manage to become everybody’s darling of road cycling, then?”

John barks out a short laugh. “By biting my tongue, most of the time, and thinking before talking. By learning from my mistakes. And I doubt I’m everybody’s darling. Surely Victor Trevor is going to put my name in the arsehole box now, as is Moran – in fact, his entire team. Wasn’t it Moran’s teammate Jeff Hope who caused me to crash?”

“Yes, it was,” replies Sherlock. He chuckles softly. “The ‘arsehole box’?”

John laughs as well. “Something I borrowed from Molly. I think she has an entire arsehole filing cabinet, mostly filled with the names of idiots who doubted that a woman would make a good mechanic and lead a team’s group of technicians. A number of teams didn’t want to take her on, apparently, despite her qualifications. Same for Soo Lin.”

“Their loss, obviously.”

“Yeah, obviously. High praise from you, though. Noticed that you haven’t been bringing along your bike recently for night time maintenance.”

“My bikes are in good hands, although I might want to fine-tune my time trial machine before the next one.”

“Of course you would,” quips John, smiling at the ceiling.

Again silence descends on the room. Despite his bone-deep weariness, John can’t seem to fall asleep. Something is nagging him. “Sherlock,” he ventures.

“Hmm?”

“About Trevor ...”

A deep breath from the other bed. “What about him?” asks Sherlock warily. 

“Do you think he spoke the truth? About not being involved in the media chaos, I mean? You know him better than I.”

“I’m not sure I ever knew him,” is Sherlock’s immediate reaction. He thinks for a moment. “Yes, I think he was truthful,” he ventures, “at least in what he told us. He may have omitted a few facts for his and his team’s convenience. It would have been easy to state his name in the _Bild_ article and its follow-ups. But it was deliberately left out. Of course, one doesn’t have to be very imaginative to understand that he was the teammate I had an amorous relationship – if one wants to actually call it that – and subsequent falling out with.”

“So you think he – or his team’s sponsor – paid to hush up his involvement? Paid to not see his name stated explicitly?”

“Possibly. Rather the sponsor than he. Paid or found some other pressure point to shut them up. Culverton Smith is a media mogul. Having his competitors publish inflammatory printed and online content without him profiting from it in some way is not how his business works. As I said before, he and Magnussen are old rivals. And then there’s Moriarty, a wild card in many respects.”

“Are you investigating any of these teams?”

A pause, which makes John doubt Sherlock will answer, until a soft, “Yes, among others,” comes from his bed. “Shad Sanderson, too. There is suspicion – not unfounded, I’d say – that Wilkes and others from his team haven’t been riding clean these past few years. Surely you are aware of how they were a no more than mediocre group of riders for several years, without much personal fluctuation in the team, and then suddenly, _boom,_ Sebastian Wilkes, a decent all-rounder, becomes a serious contender for winning major stage races, coinciding with the team’s sponsorship being taken over by international finance corporation Shad Sanderson. Wilkes did some work in the wind-tunnel, certainly, to improve his time trial performance. But what about the mountains? His recent boosts of speed and stamina can’t be explained by him simply shedding some weight and changing his cadence to better perform in the Alps and Pyrenees. There is something else at work. But whatever they’re using, it’s so far evaded all checks and controls. Moriarty’s team is suspicious in that regard, too, as is Team CAM, particularly their captain, Magnussen Jr.. I’m not even sure they actually use doping in the traditional sense.”

“You mean they “modified” their bicycles?”

“One possible explanation, yes. Powerful electric motors have constantly decreased in size in recent years. All of their bikes are constructed with fairly broad, aerodynamic frames, which offer enough space to hide a tiny motor without raising suspicion.”

“But there are spot checks on bikes, too,” puts in John. “Molly’s told me about them. We’ve been checked twice now, after each of your stage wins.”

“Yes, but you often get situations during a stage where bikes are exchanged. A flat tyre or another defect, a crash. And if you have enough people on the ground to quickly switch a bicycle ... A rider notices a “defect”, stops, helpful bystanders hold on to the bike, there is a bit of a wait until the team car arrives with a spare ... Many of the bystanders have bikes with them. Who’d notice if one of theirs got loaded onto the car instead of the rider’s original one, if they looked identical?”

“Guess it’s possible,” muses John. “Risky, though. Have you talked to Molly and the other mechanics about this?”

“Yes. She and Soo Lin showed me where they would hide motors, and how they would get rid of the evidence during a stage. Impressive knowledge, I must say. Be glad they don’t use criminal energy for illegal activities.”

John laughs. “Oh yes, I am. They could wreak havoc with us riders. Therefore, lesson number one from a cycling veteran: always be nice to your mechanics. And your physiotherapists, and your cook. And your roommate, of course. That’s the most important lesson of all.”

“Lesson taken to heart,” returns Sherlock. He sounds as if he’s smiling.

Once more they fall silent, until, “Do you mind if I play for a bit?” enquires Sherlock.

“No, it’s fine. I can’t seem to fall asleep, either, even though I’m bone tired.” John is certain Sherlock needs the violin to settle his thoughts. He hides it well, but the confrontation with Victor must have unsettled him. Tomorrow’s stage with its many climbs and descends is going to require a rider’s full attention. It’s better Sherlock gets whatever troubles him out of his system tonight instead of mulling it over when he should be concentrating on the road. 

As for John, his thoughts briefly stray to Sherlock’s former teammate. There the dragons of jealousy lie dormant, so he abandons them quickly lest he wakes them. Fortunately, his recollections tend to linger with Sherlock and their little water fight in the pool. Sherlock had been playful, silly, even. He’d dived, and splashed water around, fought off John’s attacks and attacked in turn, and laughed, a deep, happy chuckle – whenever he had enough air to do so. He’d been loose and open and trusting. He’d enjoyed himself, John is certain, as much as John enjoyed their little tussle. For a man who, according to his own words, doesn’t like other people touching him, he’d been surprisingly tactile, hadn’t minded John dunking him or diving down to grab his legs to pull him under the surface. And John (not gay but a little bisexual) Watson, had delighted in the feel of his narrow shoulders and muscular calves under his hands as he’d pushed or pulled him under.

 _Admit it, you’re falling for him,_ demands John’s inner voice. John draws a deep breath just as Sherlock begins to tune his violin, sitting on his bed. “All right?” he asks.

John blushes and nods. “Yeah. Road rash is being an arsehole.” That’s not even a lie.

“Oh. Hopefully the music will distract you.”

“I’m sure it will. Thank you.”

“It isn’t just for your sake.” 

“I know. I still appreciate it, though.” John recalls something Trevor said. “For the record, I don’t think you’re lacking in the heart department, Sherlock. Not at all.” He doesn’t say he suspects that Sherlock feels far more than he lets on, so much, in fact, that he often gets overwhelmed or bewildered by his emotions, and therefore tries to shut them down or lock them away – or give voice to them with his violin.

Sherlock doesn’t reply, nor does John expect him to. He rubs at his elbow where the healing skin has begun to itch under the fresh Spandage he has applied and shifts onto his side to lie more comfortably. “Night, Sherlock.”

“Good night, John.” His voice is almost tuned out by the music as he begins to play.

 

 

 


	7. Stage 5: 12 July, Chablis to Autun, 182,5 km, Intermediate Stage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again for the support this story has received so far. It’s not long now until the 2019 Tour de France kicks off, for those who’d like to watch. A big thank you goes once more to my brilliant beta rifleman_s. Perhaps I should warn that there are some mentions of accidents and injuries in this chapter. Nothing serious though.

Had John known beforehand how the fifth stage of the 2018 Tour de France would unfold, he might have thought twice about signing in at the start. Two other riders don’t, one due to injuries received during the previous stage, and one because of an infected insect bite and subsequent allergic reaction. Team Speedy’s is still complete, with several riders literally chomping at the bit, eager for winning this varied, unpredictable stage. Everybody expects attacks, both on the flats and particularly on the many climbs. Fears are also high for crashes. The roads in the remote, forested, wind-swept hills of the Morvan are narrow and often rough, the asphalt withered and marked with potholes, bothersome on the ascents and dangerous on the descents. Luckily, the weather is forecast to remain dry, and even though temperatures are again above thirty Celsius at the noon start in the small town of Chablis, long passages of the route are leading through woodland and over hills between seven- and nine-hundred metres in height, meaning less oppressive heat during the latter parts of the stage.

Despite his coaches’ and teammates’ enthusiastically expressed suggestion to try his luck in an escape group today, John doesn’t. It bothers him that he has to opt out. Today’s stage is of the kind he usually loves and looks forward to, suited as it is to his style of cycling with its varied terrain that requires a good eye for the right place to jump away from the peloton. But he doesn’t have the legs. Even though the night has been fairly restful after their excursion to the pool and the meeting with Victor Trevor, John’s calves and thighs feel like lead when the peloton picks up speed after the initial warming up phase. His injuries still bother him, and the heat troubles him more than it should. He feels as if he can’t breathe properly. He’s thirsty all the time. He has already emptied a water bottle before other riders have taken their first sip, which doesn’t bode well for the 180 km yet to go.

The rest of the peloton is nervous and skittish, eyeing each rider who dares accelerate out of the main field with suspicion and reacting with an immediate tightening of the pace to reel them in again. Anybody who could pose a danger to any of the major classifications is quickly caught again. It’s wearying, mentally as well as physically, to have to be on edge all the time, ready to react, to sprint in order to close a gap. The constant changes of pace are exhausting. John is relieved when after several unsuccessful breakaway attempts, a small group finally manages to jump away. It consists of the current holder of the polka-dot jersey – a French rider from the CarreFour team – two French _domestiques_ from different teams who so far haven’t been successful, and Wiggins, a young and fairly unknown rider from Team Brook Consulting who apparently also harbours aspirations for winning the mountain classification. They manage to put some distance between themselves and the peloton, bringing an end to constant attacks by GC and points classification hopefuls. The four are granted leave, at least for now. Anderson, who somehow missed joining the group during their initial escape, attacks on the first major climb. Sprinting away from the peloton, he begins an ambitious solo-ride to catch up with the breakaways.

The main group attempts to reel him in, but only half-heartedly. No organised chase can be established because accidents begin to amount. As soon as the peloton leaves the mostly flat landscape surrounding Chablis with its fields and vineyards and small villages and begins its ascent into the hills of the Morvan, roads become narrower, their surfaces rougher and more challenging. For some reason, the organisers of the Tour de France decided to stay away from the broad, well maintained _rues départementales_ in favour of the smaller (albeit arguably more scenic) routes. Despite it being a weekday, they’re lined with spectators, which sometimes leads to dangerous situations. One rider crashes because he collides with a pedestrian trying to cross over to the other side of the road at the last moment. Another gets entangled in a flag waved into his face from the roadside by an over-enthusiastic fan. Several riders encounter technical or mechanical difficulties, from damaged spokes to punctures to a snapped gear cable. Each of these crashes slows down the peloton. The lead of the breakaway rises to over ten minutes despite them not riding very fast, enabling Anderson to catch up with them and finally start collecting mountain points on this stage. Since none of the riders in front poses a danger for the major classifications except the mountain one, the peloton, strung along and shaken up by constant – albeit minor – accidents, keeps them on a long lead. The intermediate sprints are won by the breakaway group without upsetting the points classification.

Despite still mourning the lost chance of a stage win, John actually appreciates being spared having to ride in the breakaway and being left to his own devices. He does his duty as a _domestique,_ fetching food and especially water for his teammates, but most of the time he is happy to roll along in the slipstream of the peloton, concentrating on the road and trying to avoid getting caught up in accidents. The fact that several of his teammates as well as Greg, Sally and Sam keep checking on him is not lost on him. Probably Sarah’s doing, he reasons. She must have reported his state to the rest of the team after her check-up this morning. John is caught between resenting her for it – despite her simply doing her duty – and being grateful. He doesn’t want anybody’s pity. He’s no charity case the others have to drag along. Their team mascot is a bee, not John Watson, oldest rider in the peloton. On the other hand, not having to ride in the wind all the time trying to hunt down breakaway riders is nice. So far, everybody seems happy to let the escapees collect points in peace, without hurrying the peloton along in an attempt to catch them. They won’t be allowed to reach Autun, today’s finish, with a ten minute lead, that’s for sure. The speed will pick up eventually, and there are going to be attacks on the last long climb. But a little more delay of the chase ... why not? John for one won’t complain. He enjoys watching the countryside roll past. It’s rural with a touch of wildness, forest broken by meadows and narrow fields, small rivers, lakes and reservoirs, quaint villages with the odd castle or old church, all decked out for the Tour.

 

**– <o>–**

 

The relative tranquillity changes dramatically when the peloton passes through the feed zone, a little beyond the half-way point of the stage. While most riders are busy digging into their _musettes,_ the bags with food and energy bars and gels, deciding what they don’t like and either throwing it towards the bystanders or passing it to their teammates, suddenly, as if somebody has turned a switch, a part of the peloton begins to pick up speed. John, who has just used the relatively slow pace just before the feed zone for a quick piss in an area free of spectators, at first doesn’t understand what’s going on, until he hears Sally curse over the radio.

“Wilkes is down. He seems to have run over a _musette_ thrown away by another rider and crashed. Took down several others with him. Most of the road is blocked, with team cars caught up in the crash. Looks bad, half his arse hanging out of his shorts, bike trashed – oh, okay, he’s back on his spare. Ouch, that’s gonna be painful.”

“Fucking hell,” falls in Sam, the team’s third coach, from the team car bringing up the rear, “the peloton is split. Any of you caught behind the crash, try and get around it now. CS, Baskerville and Brook Consulting have been waiting for a chance just like this. They’ve upped the tempo. Guess they’re trying to both reel in the escapees now and distance Wilkes, the most serious contender for an overall Tour win, at least according to the bookies. Clever, clever.”

“Arseholes,” growls Sally. “They should have waited, if they had a shred of honour in their bodies. Tactics is all very nice, but using a crash like this to speed off ... doubtful ethics at best. Anyway, boys, see if you can get around the crash and catch up with the first half of the peloton, or at least jump onto the train of Wilkes’ team. Soo Lin and I are between Wilkes and the first half of the peloton now. We have Stephen, Sherlock, Harry, Jonathan ... I think basically all but John are with us. Greg’s in front with Philip. We’ve a third car at the rear with Sarah and Sam, in case you’ve been implicated in the crash and need anything. The Shad Sanderson boys are being pulled back to rally round their captain and escort him to the front again. That’s quite a task they have in front of them, with the next climb ahead. A category three, too, with virtually no descent, as surely you remember from practice runs in spring. There’s a bit of a plateau, and then it’s into the next climb, and then up the big one, Haut-Folin. So any of you lagging behind, try to jump onto their train and get back into the main field. CS and Brook are keeping the pace very high now.”

John has managed to reach the last few stragglers who have been caught up in Wilkes’ crash. He overtakes them and moves on to Wilkes and three of his teammates. Last year’s Tour winner looks all but happy. His shorts are indeed torn badly, the silver, blue and white stained crimson. He must have slid over the asphalt. His road rash is worse than John’s. Blood is running down his leg. He has hurt his elbow, too, the gash deep enough so that for a moment, John is certain he spots a bit of bone peeking out. Nevertheless, Wilkes carries on. He is riding next to his team’s car with the doctor hanging out of one of the windows, treating the wounds as best he can from the moving vehicle. Wilkes’ face is stony, occasionally he grimaces with pain. So far, the Tour has been fairly straightforward for him: he has rolled along trying not to lose time compared to the other GC contenders. He must have banked on showing his true powers in the Alps over the upcoming weekend and stake his claim for a second Tour win during the long ascents and dangerous descents there. All these plans are being rewritten now, with damage control a main goal for today. But this is the Tour de France. Accidents happen all the time. People on top form one day may crash spectacularly the next, literally and figuratively.

A sound overhead announces a helicopter hovering over the injured champion, probably ordered to fall back to capture the dramatic turn of the stage. Wilkes is joined by a growing number of teammates who are assembling to form a train, riding at high speed while taking turns in the wind (as they would during a team time trial) and leading their fallen captain back into the peloton in their slipstream. A camera motorcycle is keeping up with them, filming close-ups of his battered state and grim face. Presently, the person on the back of the motorbike briefly exchanges the camera for a blackboard which states the relative time differences of the various groups. The main part of the peloton containing the other GC hopefuls as well as Sherlock, Kit and Victor Trevor is three minutes ahead, their lead on Wilkes increasing.

Wilkes is struggling. He is holding on to the team car far longer than he ought to – even riding in a car’s or motorcycle’s slipstream is penalised, as of course is letting oneself be pulled along by a vehicle, although exceptions are made if a rider is injured and receiving treatment. John watches how the doctor cleans the bleeding wounds as best he can and then administers a jab into Wilkes’ thigh – probably a painkiller. It seems to help, though, because eventually, Wilkes lets go of the car and begins to find a more regular rhythm, helped along by his teammates, six of whom have returned to his aid now. John and a few other riders are happy to join the train which slowly picks up speed and begins the pursuit of the peloton, hoping to bridge the distance between the two groups before the next climb. The slopes of Côte de Saint-Maurice are already visible ahead, rising out of small fields and meadows bordered by hedgerows. Behind it loom more hills, blueish in the summerly haze, with Haut-Folin rising above them, its peak marked by an antenna. The road is ascending gently all the time, passing small settlements decorated in expectation and celebration of the Tour, with folk groups in local traditional garb and farmers in simple work clothes standing alongside tourists and hobby cyclists in colourful gear. Some have put out chairs and tables. Often, the road is painted with the names of favourite riders. John can’t help smiling each time he rolls over a large “WATSON” or “GO JOHNNY W” painted on the tarmac.

He needs this support, now more than ever. Today is not a good day. His legs haven’t recovered during what descents there have been so far. Even though the climbs have been neither long nor steep, at least compared to the Alps, the constant up and down, the many accidents that caused a change of rhythm have taken their toll. John stomach hurts dully. He feels queasy and slightly sick. There’s a chance he hasn’t eaten enough, but he’s not hungry – yet. Normally, when hunger strikes it’s already too late. But the thought of swallowing a dry energy bar or even the – probably squishy – banana he has stuffed into one of the back pockets of his jersey is anything but appealing. He’s almost run out of drink. What is left in his spare bottle is piss-warm and the opposite of refreshing. Two of Team Speedy’s three cars are further ahead, and the third quite a bit behind, held up by a minor accident with another bystander, as John learns via radio. Unless he wants to fall back and wait for it, or get water from the neutral Tour car which also isn’t close, he’ll have to bite back the pain and keep going, catch up with the rest and resupply there.

Greg, Sally and Sam Carter, the team’s third coach, are keeping John informed about the situation. The category three climb up Côte de Saint-Maurice is relatively pain-free thanks to the help from Wilkes team. But as the coaches said, there is hardly any descent afterwards, meaning no recovery. They keep going, faster than John likes if he’s perfectly honest, to keep the time difference between their group and that of the other favourites under three minutes. The profile of the following passage is made up of constant ups and downs and therefore exhausting.

At the foot of the next ascent, this time a short climb up to the small town of Château-Chinon, Wilkes’ train has reached the last stragglers of the main field, mostly sprinters or tired _domestiques._ They have formed a small _groupetto,_ trying to ascend the slope with as little effort as required. _Groupettos,_ or _autobuses,_ usually form during mountain stages when all those riders too heavy or exhausted to make good climbers and not interested in mountain points or the general classification gather together to battle the climbs at their own speed and hopefully still make it to the finish within the allowed time limit. John would be happy to simply stay with this group and pass the rest of the stage that way. It’s unusual to have a _groupetto_ on an intermediate stage like this, and relatively early in the stage, too, but apparently John is not the only rider battling exhaustion and a potential tummy bug.

“John, if you can, leave the _groupetto_ and catch up with the main field,” Sally urges him on. “The peloton has broken into groups on this climb, despite it being so short. The road gets really narrow near the top. For some reason, the Tour bosses decided to have the route branch off the main road and loop round the hill overlooking the town. It’s not broad enough for more than two or so riders abreast, and there are many bystanders near the Calvary on the summit. CS, Baskerville and Brook Consulting are keeping the speed high, but they’ve begun to shed their less able climbers. They’re virtually sprinting uphill, and not everybody can keep up. They’re expected to reunite on the descent, though. Anderson’s breakaways still have a lead of about five minutes. There are two more climbs after Château-Chinon. The big category two up to Haut-Folin – not steep but long – and a category three that’s relatively short but steep at the end, near Autun. The decent of your current hill is short but tricky. Watch out for loose gravel in the bends. We expect— oh fuck.”

“What is it?” asks John. Sally sounded shocked. He isn’t sure she heard him – often, transmission is interrupted by bad connection, particularly in hilly, forested terrain. Heart racing not just from the exertion, John waits with bated breath for a reply. _Not Sherlock, please don’t let it be Sherlock,_ he prays silently.

“There’s been another crash, near the head of the peloton,” eventually sounds in his earpiece. “Several of our men are down, Kit among them. Sherlock, too, as well as Stephen and Harry. Sherlock is back on his bike, seems to be having technical difficulties, though. Not sure if it’s a flat or something wrong with the chain. But at least he’s rolling again. Kit has a few scrapes but is mounting again. Rode too close to the kerb, apparently, after another rider drew too close to him and caused him to swerve. Stephen looks okay if shaken, Harry has trouble with his hand but seems to be coping. What fuckery! Those not bothered by the crash are speeding on, particularly CS and Brook, trying to shed as many competitors as possible before the climb to Haut-Folin, where there will be another selection of the fittest. And they have people who can endanger all three jerseys, yellow, white and green. So, all who can, fall back and help Kit and Sherlock. They must not lose connection to the main field. Jonathan, Joshua, try what you can. They’ve already lost almost a minute. John, Sam, where are you?”

“Still trying to catch up, riding the Shad Sanderson train,” replies John between sips from his bottle. The warm electrolyte drink does nothing to quench his thirst. Silently, he curses his tired, burning legs. “I’m out of water. Where are you, Sam?”

“I’ve almost reached you, mate,” comes Sam Carter’s voice from the third car. “Had a hard time getting past the _groupetto_ and the cars from Wilkes’ team because the road is almost blocked by people. They should have put up barricades in the town. We’ll be with you in a moment and you can fill up. Sally, want me to try and catch up with you, or stay with John and pick up anybody who falls behind on Haut-Folin?”

“The latter, Sam. Sherlock is struggling. He might need a replacement bike. His chain and gear shift are messed up, perhaps the brakes, too. We’ll have to split the _domestiques_ so that some can stay with him and escort him back, while the others help Kit and Stephen. There’s an intermediate sprint on the descent of Haut-Folin, so we need our sprinters at the front by then. What a fucked up mess of a stage.”

“Tell me about it,” grouses Sam, their usually calm voice tense and annoyed. “I almost ran over a dog earlier because its stupid owners preferred to take selfies next to the road instead of looking after it. Anyway, John, I’m right behind you.”

John breathes a sigh of relief. He holds out his left hand and smiles when a cold water bottle is pressed into it. He exchanges the empty one in his holder and extends his hand for more. Another one for the second holder, one goes into his jersey pocket – a wonderful cool weight in his back – while he empties a fourth right on the spot, half of the contents over his head and neck, and half down his throat. From the car, a red and black Skoda like all of Team Speedy’s vehicles (apart from the team bus), Sam and Sarah give him the thumbs up. Sam hasn’t been with the team for long, this Tour being their second as a coach. They look back on a successful professional sporting career, mostly track racing, which ended when they announced they were non-binary and refused to be pressed into one of the two categories, male or female. Apart from injecting some calm into the team of coaches – particularly next to Sally’s explosive hot-headedness – John has grown to like his third coach. He admires them for sticking up for themselves, the same way Kate and Irene do, openly living their relationship. Sometimes, John wishes he were as brave as them.

Not caring about potential penalties, he uses the exchange of water bottles for a quick chat while letting himself be pulled along by the car. It’s a dangerous thing to do, especially on uneven, winding roads. But Sam is a good, steady driver, and John an experienced cyclist. The road is getting narrower and steeper as the ascent to the hill overlooking Château-Chinon Ville begins in earnest. Many people have gathered on the grassy summit next to the three Crosses of Calvary situated there. It’s a popular local sight. John eats his banana, riding in the slipstream of the car, and washes down a packet of energy gel with large gulps of cold electrolyte drink. He does feel somewhat refreshed afterward and manages to jump to the head of the Shad Sanderson train and even sprint ahead, ascending steadily until he reaches the last stragglers of the split-up peloton. According to Sally, Sherlock, Kit and Stephen are being escorted back into the first group of the main field and are expected to join up with them after the descent from Château-Chinon. The leaders of the peloton, namely teams CS and Brook Consulting, with the help of Team Baskerville and CAM, are still keeping the pace high, and have almost caught the breakaway group around Anderson and Wiggins. Attacks of single riders trying to jump ahead to the breakaways are expected on the long ascent to Haut-Folin, as well as attempts by those teams with GC contenders to counter them. The outcome of the stage, whether an escapee will get through or there will be a sprint finish again remains as unpredictable as ever. Probably, there will be changes in the major classifications, too, with Kit and Sherlock losing their respective jerseys.

 

**– <o>–**

 

Just how precarious their positions are shows on the descent from the Calvary to the valley of the river Yonne. It’s relatively steep, with narrow bends and a rough road surface riddled with grooves. Another difficulty is the light as it flickers through the trees to either side of the road, alternatively casting the ground into deep shade or bright patches of sunlight. It’s bothersome for one’s eyes which have to adjust quickly to the changes. The descent requires a huge amount of concentration and technical skill, because apart from the road, a rider needs to be aware of other cyclists, cars, motorcycles, bystanders, potential obstacles waiting behind bends. Most riders tend to not think about the latter, simply hoping nothing is going to block the road and impair their downward race. John is one of them. When he was younger, he used to ride even more recklessly. He has calmed down a little, but is still one of the most daring descenders, able to catch up with more cautious riders who actually slow down before tackling a tricky bend.

Ducking down behind his handlebars and flattening himself as much as possible to the head tube of his bike, after passing under the bouncy inflatable gate-like structure that marks the highest point of the road crossing Côte de Château-Chinon, John begins his chase in earnest. He finally leaves behind Wilkes and his teammates who managed to catch up with him last metres of the climb. Passing a few less daring descenders on his downward ride, John smiles. This is the life. His aching legs are forgotten for the moment. He only hears the wind rushing in his ears as he flies downhill, barely braking but instead approaching the bends with maximum possible speed. Any obstacle on the road would be disastrous, he knows that. But he doesn’t care. This stage has been so hard and painful up to now. John feels he has earned a little respite.

A crackle in his earpiece tells him that someone is trying to contact him via radio. He can’t hear proper words, though, because of the rush of the wind and possible a bad connection. _Probably Sam or Sally telling me to slow down. Well, fat chance. I’m going to make the most of this descent._ Overhead, a rushing, pulsating sound announces the helicopter drawing close. Ever since his crash, it has stayed close to Wilkes. Something must have happened further ahead. John swerves and curses loudly when from behind him, a camera motorcycle speeds up, overtaking him in a breakneck manoeuvre that has even John shake his head. At the same time he welcomes the rush of adrenaline that clears his head. Some of these motorbike chaps are even crazier than the professional cyclists. He’s always admired the camera persons in the back, riding shot-gun facing backwards while handling the equipment, often with both hands on their cameras. They must have stomachs made of iron.

His own stomach gives a strange lurch. Something has happened ahead, something to attract the attention of the official Tour media and broadcasting networks, enough to send the heli and extra camera people. When yet another motorcycle rushes past John, he signs to its occupants and makes a questioning gesture, but the riders don’t seem to have caught it. Nearing another narrow curve, the forest on the downhill side is replaced by a steep, stony meadow, the verges grown with tall foxgloves and some late-flowering hemlocks, opening the view to the stretch of road below. The helicopter is hovering there, which can only mean a crash. A crash of an important rider.

An ice-cold hand seems to grip John’s heart and squeeze it. He’s been here before, most recently – and memorably – during the Dauphiné. He can already see a similar scene unfolding before his inner eyes. It still haunts his dreams some nights. He tries to accelerate even more, to reach the site of the accident and be able to see and gauge the damage, while on the other hand he doesn’t want to see or know. _A yellow jersey on the road, blood on the tarmac, a rider lying still with his arms and legs akimbo, some bent at horrible angles_... James being treated by Sarah to stabilise him enough for transport by helicopter. John standing by, not knowing whether he’d make it. He still doesn’t remember how he managed to finish the stage, but he recalls the pain and guilt he felt. And now this. _Not again, please, not again. Not Sherlock. Please, let him be all right._

He barely concentrates on the road as he takes the last bend, rising in the saddle to look past the motorcycles – and sagging back down in relief. A rider is disentangling himself up from the barbed wire fence he careened into. Some cream-coloured Charolais cattle have ambled over to watch him curiously. His yellow jersey is torn in places. John spots injuries, specks of blood where the barbs cut into his arms and legs. But Sherlock is upright, he’s walking. Once he’s freed himself of the fence, he even picks up and carries his bike on his shoulder as he climbs up the stony bank. And he’s angry. He’s virtually fuming with anger. John has never seen him like this, incandescent, fuming hot and bright, not even during his most scathing interviews.

Once on road level, Sherlock throws the bike to the ground and kicks it for good measure. Not that the action could do much more damage. The rear wheel is bent out of shape with several spokes out of alignment. The chain has snapped and judging from the way one of the brake levers dangles, the rear brake cable is damaged as well. Sally’s car is nowhere in sight – it must have been ahead, stayed with Kit and the others and their pursuit of the leaders. John wonders if they even know what’s happened to Sherlock until he recalls the frantic communication via radio obscured by bad connection. Has Sherlock been lagging behind because of the technical difficulties Sally mentioned earlier? John wonders why he didn’t switch bikes during the ascent. It’s possible, of course, that major problems only manifested when he was going downhill at speed, particularly if something was wrong with his brakes.

Looking up, Sherlock spots John. Some of the agitated tension leaves his frame. The honk of a horn announces the arrival of Sam’s car. John lets out a huge sigh of relief.

He brakes hard, slowing to a halt next to Sherlock on the gravelly verge of the road while other riders rush past – Wilkes and his retinue. “All right?” gasps John, giving his teammate another one-over.

Sherlock inclines his head. “Just minor cuts and abrasions. The fence prevented worse.”

John takes in his torn jersey and bleeding arms and legs.

“Sure?” It’s true, for someone who sped into a barbed wire fence at 60 kmh or more, Sherlock looks as if he’s been extremely lucky.

“Yes,” snaps Sherlock. “Finally,” he grouses when Sam jumps out of the car and begins to unload a spare bike from the roof.

“What happened?” they ask.

“The gear shift was wonky ever since my first crash, as was the chain,” explains Sherlock while adjusting the saddle and mounting. He is out of breath and possibly in shock, judging from his pale grimace of a face, but he doesn’t seem to care, fuelled by anger and adrenaline, obviously eager to continue.

“Worse than they should have been from the crash alone,” continues Sherlock, stuffing the water bottle Sarah hands him into his holder, and shaking his head fiercely when she indicates tending to his injuries. John reckons he doesn’t even feel the pain just yet, pumped full of adrenaline as he is. His eyes are glinting dangerously, and for all his dishevelled looks, his bearing is that of a vengeful angel who has just risen out of the flowery meadow. To John, he has never looked more impressive. A faint chill raises goose-bumps on his arms. It has nothing to do with the draught of the cyclists and vehicles rushing past.

“I was going downhill carefully, even told Sally and the others to go ahead and not wait for me, that I’d catch up with them on the dip before Haut-Folin. But then I hit a bump, shortly after summiting the Calvary above Château-Chinon, and couldn’t shift gear properly anymore because the chain jumped off. I decided to just let roll and see to it once I’d made it downhill, but something was wrong with my brakes, too. They didn’t pull correctly, and made quite horrible noises, as if one had sprung out of alignment. I tried to slow down more by skirting the bank, but it was difficult. This bend was so narrow that I careened too close to the downhill side and slid on the gravel. I think the cable of the rear brake snapped. Keep the bike, don’t do anything to it. I need to check it later.”

With that, he sets out, with Sam pushing him for a few metres. Sarah helps John accelerate. Soon, they are racing along again. _I need to check it later._ Sherlock’s words are echoing in John’s ears. He knows what is implied there. Sabotage. Sherlock doesn’t believe his crash was an accident, but rather manufactured. And somehow, it makes sense. So much bad luck during a stage is unusual for a team, although they’re not the only one being pursued by it. Shad Sanderson – who’ve just sped past them –have had their share as well. Shad Sanderson with their team captain Wilkes, a potential Tour winner. Team Speedy’s with their man in yellow, likely to lose his leader’s position now. It could be coincidence, of course. Streaks of disaster are not unusual in a long stage race such as the Tour. But for them to have hit these particular teams at this particular time is suspicious indeed.

Flattening himself behind his handlebars again, John overtakes Sherlock who is riding equally aerodynamically, and nods to him to follow his lead. Sherlock’s grim, resigned expression brightens for an instance. _Yeah, mate,_ thinks John, _you’re not alone in this. I’m gonna help you back into the peloton, and if it’s the last thing I do in this Tour._

**– <o>–**

 

What follows are about the hardest hours of John’s life. It feels as if Sherlock and he are conducting a pair time trial, riding as fast as they can while taking turns in the wind, which thankfully isn’t strong. For what remains of the descent from Château-Chinon, John takes the lead, guiding Sherlock downwards in a daring chase. Once they reach the valley and the rough lane they’re on converges with the main road again, Sherlock takes over, his time trial excellence showing clearly in the steady, high pace he sets. John rides as long in his slipstream for as long as he dares before relieving him. As he overtakes him, he notices Sherlock’s grim, set expression. He’s in pain but fighting to control it. Blood is seeping from the many small puncture wounds on his skin, creating an intricate pattern on his arms and legs. Something appears to be wrong with his chest, too, because his breathing is laboured. Bruised ribs, John assumes. _What a bleeding shithole of a stage_. Sherlock is clearly suffering but tries not to let it show.

Sherlock gives him a grateful yet worried glance when John swerves in front of him. “Will you manage?” he gasps.

John replies with a sharp nod and a quick look over his shoulder. “I’m fine.”

“Your legs are killing you.”

“Yeah. As is my shoulder, and my stomach isn’t right, either. But I’ll get you back into the peloton, even if I’ll have to ride _groupetto_ afterwards.”

“John—”

“Shut up and concentrate on breathing. You should have let Sarah treat you when you had the chance. This is going to be a fucking painful ride.”

Sherlock grunts behind him, the sound almost obliterated by the rush of wind and roar of a motorcycle drawing close – of course they’d stay around the man in yellow. At least the people watching the drama of this stage online or on their TVs will be entertained. John is tempted to yell at the motorists to leave the two of them in peace, but he knows he’d just waste his breath. They’re a main attraction now and will remain so whether Sherlock manages to rejoin the peloton or not. According to the slate the camera person holds up, John and Sherlock are seven minutes behind Anderson’s breakaway at _tête de la course_ , about four and a half behind the group around Moriarty, Ricoletti and most of the other GC contenders, and half a minute ahead of Wilkes and his retinue whom they overtook again soon after the decent. John expects the latter to catch them eventually, and actively looks forward to that because it’ll mean less work for Sherlock and him. But until they do ... ducking his head down against a persistent head wind and grinding his teeth against the pain, he tries to find a speed and cadence he can maintain for a bit until Sherlock takes over the lead again.

 

**– <o>–**

 

John manages to ignore the pain and fatigue in his legs and his upset stomach until the ascent to Haut-Folin begins in earnest. Again they are on a rough and fairly narrow road mostly leading through forest. It’s made even narrower by onlookers and their vehicles. Many came in caravans and are camping alongside the route. The atmosphere is festive and supportive, but the packed banks make the climb more demanding, mostly because the riders have to concentrate hard not to collide with over-enthusiastic or careless bystanders. By working together, John and Sherlock have managed to lessen the lead of the main field and have almost reached its rear guard. After passing through the village of Arleuf and a brief descent, they enter the forest and the road gets steeper, with the antenna on the summit of Haut-Folin dancing in and out of view above the trees. It’s cooler here, thankfully, but that’s about the only improvement. John is parched, but fears to imbibe too much electrolyte drink because of his roiling stomach.

For the last two kilometres before the climb, Sherlock simply pulled him along when John couldn’t take the lead anymore, at least not at decent speed. John lacked the strength for more work in the wind. His left leg is about to cramp, and his shoulder is killing him. Each pothole or bump on the road feels like the stab of a knife. He’s going to need a long descend to recover, but he has to endure another six or seven kilometres of steady uphill cycling before he can rest his legs. The road isn’t steep. The average gradient of this climb is around four percent. But the gradient is irregular, constantly changing, often too steep for a large gear, and too flat for a small one, meaning he has to shift gears constantly and often feels as if he’s been glued to the tarmac without moving much at all.

“Stay behind me,” Sherlock calls to him when John makes an attempt to overtake him and give him a reprieve in the wind.

“What about your leg?” gasps John. Sherlock’s rhythm isn’t as regular as usual. John noticed that he is favouring one leg, probably because he hurt it during one of his crashes.

“I’m fine,” lies Sherlock, his painful grimace betraying his words. “We’ve almost reached the _groupetto_ for this hill.”

“You can drop me off there,” growls John, hating himself for having to admit that he’s in that bad a shape today. “I won’t be of much use to you after this climb, or even for what remains of it. I’m completely done in. Sorry.”

Sherlock gives him a long, worried glance. John snorts and rolls his eyes. “Sherlock, seriously, go, if you feel like it. You can still catch up with the others, I think. I’ll only slow you down.”

Sherlock swallows visibly. His expression turns grim and defiant. “I’ll stay with you.”

John shakes his head violently. “Then you’re an idiot. Sherlock, go! You’ll do no such thing. Let me ride at my own pace.”

“The time limit ...”

“I’ll make it. Somehow. Wilkes is not far behind. I’ll suck up to him and his teammates. And if I don’t make it ... at least you’ll be having a room to yourself soon. And now, piss off.”

“John ...” Sherlock looks undecided, even a little shaken. John knows he’s been harsh. But he feels like shit, and he can’t have Sherlock worrying about him. He needs to concentrate. He can still salvage his yellow jersey, if he’s lucky.

Sherlock rummages in the back pocket of the garment, hands over a packet. “Should be okay for your stomach, in case you feel you can eat something. For a bit of extra energy before the summit. Good luck, John.”

“To you, too, Sherlock. And sorry for being such an arse right now. This is not how I wanted this stage to go.”

“Me neither. See you in Autun.”

John smiles sadly. “Yeah. Perhaps I’ll take the Broom Wagon, after all.”

Sherlock looks positively scandalised. “Don’t you dare. I still need your adapter, remember. Don’t you dare give up now.”

“Or what?”

“You don’t want to know.” With that, he accelerates, overtakes two riders in front of them, and vanishes round a bend. John sags behind his handlebars. For a brief moment, he is tempted to simply let roll until he comes to a halt, dismount, and wait for the Broom Wagon. The despair passes as quickly as it came, though. He’s had bad days like this before. This is not the first time he’s considered giving up, and yet so far he’s always come round, always pulled through in the end. And Sherlock is right. Giving up now would mean no more Tours, ever. It’d be it, permanently. He’d crash out of professional cycling, the centre of his life for more than twenty years, in the most humiliating way possible. He wouldn’t have a last chance for a win on Champs-Élysées, or even to stand there with his teammates, celebrating surviving another Tour de France. He’d have to leave the team, his friends, and return to London far sooner than intended, with the prospect of finding something to do there to sustain himself. _You wouldn’t be rooming with Sherlock anymore, wouldn’t be around to help him with his investigation, wouldn’t be able to look after the idiot, perhaps would never see him again._ Actually, this is the worst. Fuck the adapter, it’s just a pretence. Sherlock enjoys sharing a room with John, the same way John enjoys his company. And he’s not prepared to put an end to it now, not when he can feel that something is developing between them, faint and tenuous as yet, but with the potential for more – even if this ‘more’ doesn’t move into relationship territory at all, but rather manifests in a tight, enduring friendship.

Gazing at the packet Sherlock handed to him, John swallows. It’s obviously from Sherlock’s _musette,_ one of Mrs. Turners homemade energy bars. They’re very much sought after in the team because they are more efficient and healthier than store-bought ones, containing mostly natural sugars instead of artificial sweeteners so as not to upsets riders’ stomachs. John believes that his present tummy ache is mostly caused by the artificial ingredients of the high energy food he has consumed, worsened by the hot weather and the increased need for electrolyte drinks. Due to the strenuous schedule of a race such as the Tour de France, Mrs. Turner doesn’t always have time to make large batches of the bars. John has already eaten the one from his own pack. Sherlock’s appear to be of a different kind from the one John had, too. The shape is different, and it’s squishier. Curious, John unwraps it. It’s oats, nuts, dried blueberries, and honey, turned sticky by the warmth of Sherlock’s body. John takes a bite, revises his assessment of the ingredients. Honey is definitely the main one. It’s sweet, but not overly so. In fact, it’s really rather nice.

Swallowing against the sudden lump in his throat, he takes another bite. He doesn’t believe in miracles. But he does know how much one’s psyche can influence, even overrule, an exhausted, aching body. And this gift – because this is what it is to John – was a thoughtful one. He takes another bite before wrapping the bar again and putting it into this pocket. After drinking deeply from his bottle, he grips the bars with renewed resolve. This nightmare of a stage is not going to defeat him. He is going to ride this bloody Tour to the end, somehow, even if he comes last overall (which in fact is quite a coveted rank).

 

**– <o>–**

 

Somehow, John makes it to the summit of Haut-Folin. The old ski-lifts and visitor centre are beset with onlookers. John passes under the inflatable gate to roaring cheers from the crowds and a number of well-meaning pats on the back. “Yeah, go, Watson,” a half-drunk Scot shouts into his ears. “Bravo, Johnny. You’re the best.”

John doesn’t feel ‘the best’ when he lurches over the top. At least some of the bleak despair he felt at the foot of Haut-Folin has evaporated. He has eaten all of Sherlock’s honey bar by now and feels it has helped re-energise him. Perhaps he is imagining its effect, perhaps most of it is psychological, but he doesn’t care. Somehow, miraculously, it helped. He managed to keep up with the _groupetto_ when it was reinforced by Wilkes and his men _._ He even left it and them behind with a last effort sprint on the last metres of the climb to have a free road ahead of him for the descent. And oh, does he look forward to the downhill ride. It’s almost as long as the climb, over ten kilometres, with a low gradient and relatively few sharp bends, meaning he’ll be able to simply let roll without having to break or even concentrate over much, and hope that his legs will recover a little before the last climb of the day, a short, partly steep one not far from Autun.

Via radio, he’s being kept informed how his teammates are faring. Sherlock hasn’t quite managed to reunite with the other GC hopefuls, but he has made it to a larger group of Team Speedy’s riders. According to both Sam’s and Sally’s running commentary (occasionally augmented by Lestrade who is still accompanying Anderson and the first group of breakaways), Sherlock fought bitterly for every metre gained on the climb and looks as dead on his wheels as John feels. John hopes he hasn’t overdone things and has kept some reserves for the last climb. Kit, Stephen and Harry have done well, keeping up with Brook Consulting and the other teams in the main part of the peloton despite their punishing speed. There is a last intermediate sprint in Bibracte, still on the decent from Haut-Folin, where Bainbridge and most other sprinters who weathered the hills well hope to gain points. The initial breakaway with Anderson, Wiggins, the chap wearing the polka-dots and their two companions still hasn’t been caught yet, but their lead has dwindled to little more than a minute. They are expected to reach the last hill first but get reeled in on the final stretch into Autun, unless the peloton gets held up by another accident.

Several of those occur during the long descent. John passes three crashed riders. One looks as if he has sustained serious injuries, the other two are back on their feet almost immediately. Despite his exhaustion, John uses his descending skills to catch up with another group of riders that have fallen behind the peloton. To his relief it contains two of his teammates, Andrew Hopkins and Joshua Gregson, both good, steady riders who apparently have spent themselves working for Kit and the two sprinters and are now taking things a little easier. They welcome him with surprise and genuine joy.

“Thought we’d lost you in the woods, John,” says Hopkins with his Texan drawl. He and Gregson are both American (Gregson hails from California). They’re good friends and roommates who like to rib each other about their respective states of origin and their politics (even though Hopkins is a stalwart Democrat). John likes them, as he likes all his teammates, even surly Anderson, and is glad for their company, not least because they still carry extra water, and offer precious cover from the wind.

John smiles wryly. “Nope, still here. I seriously considered taking a ride in the Broom Wagon, though.”

“That bad?” enquires Gregson, looking worried.

“Yeah. Bad legs, bad shoulder, funny tummy, everything hurts like a fucking nightmare.” The two others exchange a commiserating glance. Both bear minor injuries indicating recent crashes. Hopkins’ upper arms are rather badly sunburned, and Gregson had been complaining about stomach troubles at breakfast. John is certain they haven’t abated during this stage of hell.

“Tell me about it,” sighs Hopkins. “Heard you helped our yellow boy back into the peloton, though.”

“A bit. He did most of it himself. I’m so looking forward to my bed.”

“Yeah, same. And a massage. My legs are killing me. Oh, hey, some good news, did you just hear Sally? Stephen won the intermediate sprint and is now the virtual bearer of green. Philip has been doing well in the mountain classification as well, so even if their group gets caught soon, he’ll be happy about the points he won.”

Glad for his teammates’ good fortune, the three of them fall into line.

 

**– <o>–**

 

The last climb of the day is just as terrible as John feared. It’s only a category three, a small elevation called Côte de la Croix de Liberation, a wooded hill overlooking the ancient town of Autun with its Roman battlements, Mediaeval architecture and Romanesque cathedral. But despite the shortness of the climb and its low gradient, John suffers greatly on the ascent, not managing to keep up with his two teammates. He creeps uphill at what feels like walking pace, so slow on one of the steeper ramps that two bystanders take pity and push him along for a bit. It’s humiliating, but at least with their help, he somehow makes it across the summit marked by a large white cross. It does feel like a liberation. It’s mostly downhill from there, with a few sharp bends in the old city centre of Autun and the passage of one of its Roman gateways.

There, on the narrow streets the last battle of the day is fought. John patches together how the events unfold from his coaches’ and teammates’ commentaries over the radio. As expected, the breakaway is caught before they pass the town’s battlements. The outcome of the stage passes into the hands of the sprinters. But because of the narrow passages and general disorganisation of the peloton, no real sprint preparation is possible, forcing the fast men to fend for themselves. Ultimately, the stage is won by Jefferson Hope of Brook Consulting, with Mark Morstan second and Stephen Bainbridge third, landing the latter in green because of the points he earned in the last intermediate sprint. Kit manages to defend his white jersey by hair’s breadth. Anderson is second overall in the mountain points classification, while the polka-dot jersey moves on to Wiggins of Brook Consulting. Moriarty’s team also win the team classification. John reckons that the red number for most daring rider will either go to Sherlock or to Sebastian Wilkes for their struggles.

The big surprise, even shock of the day is a change in the general classification. Even though Sherlock has achieved some serious damage control, due to his injuries he lacked the strength to keep up with Moriarty, Ricoletti, Baskerville and, most importantly, Victor Trevor on the last climb and lost about a minute and a half on Trevor. Therefore, his yellow jersey passed on to his old adversary. Sherlock lands in sixth place overall.

John loses almost ten minutes on the leaders, but he doesn’t care. He somehow arrives within the time limit, after being overtaken by Wilkes and most other riders on the last kilometres. Many teams are already packing up when finally, the finish comes into sight. Nevertheless – or perhaps because of his late arrival – John receives a warm welcome. People are cheering him on, waving Union Jacks and crying his name. On the large screens, he can see himself in video footage taken during the stage, battle-weary and struggling, as he helps Sherlock on their solo ride through the hills of the Morvan. Sherlock himself is nowhere in sight, whisked away already out of reach of the eager reporters who, like flies around a dead animal, have been circling him relentlessly. For his detractors, this must be a field day. Sherlock has lost yellow, he’s been reduced to a mere mortal now. John wonders what Sherlock thinks. He never expected to gain yellow, nor to keep it for as long as he did. Perhaps he is glad to be rid of it and the attention, responsibility and constant scrutiny that come with it. But on the other hand ... he must resent that it has moved on to Victor Trevor now.

 

**– <o>–**

 

Mike, who welcomes John behind the finish, taking his bike and propping him up when John’s shaking legs don’t quite want to support him, knows better than to talk to him. He simply looks after John, wipes him down with a cool flannel, provides him with drinks and a snack. Their hotel is situated in the old part of the town, right next to the battlements. John is familiar with the accommodation. They stayed there during preparation for the Tour earlier this year. John loved the place with its mix of old architecture and new design, particularly the large courtyard surrounded by three wings of the 17th century building, resplendent with ornamental lawns and views towards the hills they’ve just left behind. If he were feeling better, he’d love to sit out there on the terrace with a cool drink and enjoy said views. But the way things are, he’s not sure he’ll even make it to dinner tonight. He almost falls asleep in Sam’s car during the short transfer to the hotel. On his way to his room he meets Kate and Irene who inform him that massages will take place downstairs in one of the health-and-beauty facilities of the hotel where there are proper massage tables. John only nods wearily. He doubts he’ll manage to get up again once he sits or lies down somewhere.

The room is beautiful, with visible dark beams in the whitewashed ceiling, smooth flagstone floors, and tasteful modern furnishings, one of which is a double bed. John stands and stares at its white coverlets and subtly patterned pillows for a while, his mind too tired to process the information his eyes are providing, and even less the repercussions of sharing such close quarters with Sherlock. It’s not unusual to share doubles with roommates during races. John has done it before plenty of times. Still, sharing with Sherlock feels ... special, somehow. Sherlock’s violin case lies on one pillow, his luggage and clothes are spread about the room. He has claimed the right side of the bed. John’s luggage has been brought up, too, occupying the floor next to a small table and one of the dark wooden chairs.

There is no sign of the man himself. The scent of his shampoo lingers in the room, however. Sherlock must already have taken a shower and is probably getting his massage right now, as well as a thorough check-up from Sarah. John simply drops what he is carrying – water bottle, helmet, a small bag with energy bars – and totters into the bathroom. A cloud of warm, humid air greets him, smelling of Sherlock. John breathes in deeply, chides himself for doing so, and decides he can’t be arsed to care. Stripping off his sweat-soaked, grimy garments takes far longer than it should because of his trembling fingers. Seated on the closed toilet, he struggles with his footwear. His left leg cramps painfully when he tries to kick off the shoe. He hisses with pain. Not a good portend for the next stage. At least the muscles didn’t cramp during the stage, although it was a close call.

Somehow, John makes it into the shower. Before he closes the frosted divider, he catches a glimpse of his face in the mirror above the sink. It’s not a pleasant sight. He looks at least ten years older, resembling his father ever more closely – at least the way he remembers him. They haven’t really spoken for a long time, not after John decided to side with his sister and cut his homophobic begetter out of his life. The leg cramps again, more violently now. Cursing, John lowers himself to the floor of the cubicle. It’s large enough for him to stretch out his legs. Cursing again because he forgot to turn on the water and can’t quite reach now, he tries to massage his leg and pull his toes towards him to relieve the muscle. It doesn’t much help. The cramp moves from his calf into his foot. He cries out in pain. He realises he can’t really get up, not without potentially pulling down half the shower. He should call for help. But no, this would be the ultimate humiliation. John Watson, too weak to get onto his feet again in the shower. Eventually, somebody must come. Mike will look for him. Or Sherlock ...

A sound beyond the door announces an arrival. Sherlock can’t possibly be done with his massage, can he?

“Are you done in the shower, John? I forgot something in the ensuite.”

John closes his eyes and softly bangs the back of his head against the cool tiles. Of fucking course it’s Sherlock. And yes, he forgot his mobile phone, which lies on the narrow shelf above the toilet. Torn between telling him to leave him in peace and asking him for help, John deliberates, until a knock on the door shakes him out of his contemplation.

“John, I just need my mobile. It’s rather urgent. I have to be back downstairs for massage. Could you just—”

With a deep sigh and a groan, John makes up his mind. “The door is unlocked,” he grits out.

A moment’s hesitation, then the door is opened slowly. “I’ll be gone in a moment.” A pause. “Are you okay?” comes Sherlock’s baritone from beyond the frosted glass, sounding worried. He steps closer, a vague shape of blue and grey.

John runs a shaking hand over his eyes. _No, I’m fucking not okay, I’m a complete mess, and I don’t want you to see me like this, and I don’t want you to leave, either, and I don’t know what to do, and ..._ “Stay,” he whispers, horrified how weak and hoarse and tremulous his voice sounds.

“John?”

“Sherlock, stay. I ...,” John swallows, takes a deep breath, trying to keep his voice strong and steady and failing. “I need your help. Cramp. In my leg. Can’t get up again.”

Another pause. “Oh.” The shadowy shape runs a hand through his hair. “Do you ... I’ll fetch Mike. And Sarah.”

“Just help me up, okay,” rasps John. “I just want to take this fucking shower.”

Sherlock steps closer but hesitates to open the divider. So John does it, basically kicking it open with his functioning leg. He startles Sherlock, who takes a surprised step back before visibly pulling himself together and resolutely joining John in the shower. He is wearing grey jogging bottoms and a dark-blue t-shirt. Some of the deeper puncture marks on his arms have been treated with Tegaderm. His hair is still wet from his shower. The fact that John is stark naked, sweaty and grimy doesn’t seem to faze him at all. Quickly and efficiently, and with surprising gentleness, he helps John to his feet again, propping him up until he feels that his cramping leg can bear his weight again. John is torn between leaning on him and pushing him away. He is aware that his cheeks are flaming, not just with a touch of sunburn, but with embarrassment.

“I’ll get Sarah,” mutters Sherlock, still standing closer to John than strictly necessary, not meeting his eyes.

“I’m fine.”

“You are clearly not ‘fine’, John,” comes the stern reply. “You haven’t been ‘fine’ all day. You need a doctor.”

John shakes his head. “This is the bloody Tour de France, Sherlock. Riders have shit days. Just leave me, okay. I’ll manage now.” It comes out far sharper than he intended. Sherlock steps back, his eyes narrowing.

“Yes, John, I know.” He has also raised his voice a small fraction. “As you may recall, I was one of the riders having a ‘shit day’ today, crashing twice and hitting a barbed wire fence at near full speed during one of these occasions. I also disappointed the team by losing the yellow jersey and caused you and others additional work and pain when you had to help me back into the peloton. So please don’t remind me about ‘shit days’.”

“At least you can still walk and managed to finish the stage in a fairly respectable time,” John shoots back. “I barely met the time limit. I was this close to giving up. Actually, I might not sign in tomorrow. In my current state, I’d be an even greater disappointment for the team than you.” There. It’s said. And he means it.

Sherlock studies him with narrowed eyes. “You wouldn’t. You enjoy this too much.”

“I don’t fucking enjoy anything about this right now,” returns John fiercely, his voice breaking. He sounds utterly pathetic and he hates himself for it. He sniffs, and cuffs at his eyes because they’ve become wet. _How wonderful. Here you are, having a fucking breakdown in front of your roommate while standing stark naked in a bleeding shower cubicle. You’ve had low times before, but never like this. This is absolute rock bottom._ Angry, defeated tears keep coming, but he can’t seem to pull himself together. This has been a while coming.

“I’m hurting all over, I can’t even walk because I’m weak and dizzy and my leg’s all cramped up, I feel so sick I might throw up any moment. How on earth am I supposed to survive the next days, when we’re heading into the bloody Alps? Tell me that, genius? I’d only compromise the team. You’re all better off without me.”

“Wrong.”

“Piss off.”

“No.” A large hand is placed on each of John’s shoulders, pinning his back against the tiles and forcing him to look into Sherlock’s storm-grey eyes. “No, John Watson, I will not ‘piss off’. I will stay right here until you get a grip, let Sarah see you, eat, sleep, and decide to ride again tomorrow, and the day after, and the day after, and every day until we reach Paris. Oh, and do take that shower, please, because you reek of sweat.”

Shaking off the hands, John fires back. “I don’t need you to tell me what to do.”

“Apparently you do. I won’t allow you to give up so easily.”

“Yeah? And how are you going to do that, eh? I could pack my bags right now and leave this shit-show once and for all. I don’t need a fucking know-all like you to tell me what’s supposedly best for me.”

“Oh yes? And go where? You don’t _have_ anywhere to go, have you, John? This is your life, and you haven’t thought of alternatives yet because you don’t want to face the reality of ending your pro career in two weeks’ time. And as for leaving right now, you aren’t even dressed, and as you so pointedly stated, you can’t walk with your cramping leg. Also, you’re wet.”

With a quick move, Sherlock steps back, turns on the shower – which of course is cold – and jumps out of the cubicle. “I expect you at dinner, John Watson, and woe betide if you dare not attend.”

“Fuck off, freak!” yells John at his retreating back. “Stop bothering me and leave me in peace! I’m not one of your fucking cases. I don’t need your pity. I don’t need anything from you.”

Sherlock hisses something John doesn’t hear properly over the rush of water. Shutting the door of the ensuite with a resounding _bang,_ he leaves. John stares after him, both fuming with anger and burning with humiliation. Of course Sherlock is right. But John hurts too much to acknowledge it. It just wants to continue to wallow in misery for a while. Preferably with warmer water, though. He changes the temperature. And some nice hair-product. Cursing Sherlock and his posh arse and the fact he’s always bloody right, he reaches for his shampoo bottle – John’s own is still in his bag, anyway.

 

**– <o>–**

 

He does feel more human after his shower. Sarah is already waiting for him when he hobbles out of the ensuite, a towel wrapped round his hips. It’s clear that Sherlock fetched her. She raises an eyebrow when John holds up a hand and forestalls whatever she was going to say. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

She sighs. “Okay, then don’t. Just tell me where it hurts, and that you’ve finished your little break-down.”

“It’d be easier to tell you where it doesn’t hurt,” mutters John, carefully lowering himself to the bed. “I’m getting to old for this, Sarah.”

“Yes, yes, I know. But you’re not dead yet. Show me that leg of yours. When did you feel the cramping begin?”

“Before the climb to Haut-Folin, but it didn’t develop into a full-blown one until I took off my shoe. My stomach troubles me, too, and in general, I feel really fatigued. I’m absolutely finished, Sarah.”

“You’re not the only rider with these problems,” says Sarah as she begins to carefully stretch his calf. John hisses with pain, but he grits his teeth to endure it. “I’ve already talked to Mrs. Turner and the physio-therapists. We believe the problem is the extremely hot and dry weather. All of you sweat much more than during training, or even during the Dauphiné. We’ll have to revise your nutrition plans, add more sodium, potassium and magnesium to your diets, and give you stronger electrolyte drinks during stages, ones that don’t upset your stomachs too much.”

John scoffs softly. “I thought it was just me, because I’m too old and not fit enough to keep up.”

Sarah rolls her eyes. “Is this what you keep telling yourself? Oh John, you’re such an idiot. Yes, you are the oldest rider, and yes, there are men fitter than you, but you’re still a Tour de France champion. You aren’t on this team because the coaches couldn’t have filled your spot otherwise.” She cocks her head, studying him, even reaches out to lift his drooping chin with a finger. “What’s it with this downtrodden look, eh? This is unlike you.”

John wipes a hand over his eyes. “Shit day,” he mutters hoarsely, praying he won’t break down in front of Sarah, too.

She grips his shoulder and squeezes it gently. “Mike and I will get you ship-shape again, promise. Oh, and please apologise to Sherlock, okay?”

John looks up. “Sherlock?”

“He seemed pretty upset when he came to fetch me. Whatever did you say to him?”

“I called him a freak and told him to fuck off and leave me in peace,” he lets out a ragged breath and sniffs, “when in fact I’m the freak and arsehole. He was only trying to help. Oh fucking hell, Sarah, I really am a mess.”

“Yes, you are. Here, blow your nose. And go and apologise to him. After all, you’ll be sharing a room – actually, a bed,” a small, amused twitch of her mouth, “tonight. He said something about meeting Molly after his massage and before dinner.”

John accepts the tissue she hands him and blows his nose. “Yes, I’ll apologise. I didn’t mean to hurt him. He really is trying, you know, and somehow, I shoot him down every time.”

“Men,” snorts Sarah. “So, any news on the dating front?”

Now John is the one to roll his eyes. “No-oh. Honestly, Sarah. We’re professionals. This is the Tour.”

She grins. “Who says I was referring to Sherlock? But how interesting that your thoughts would turn to him right away, isn’t it?”

John sticks out his tongue. She laughs.

“I don’t think he’s inclined that way.”

“He dated Victor Trevor, John.”

“Oh, no, that’s not what I mean. He’s most certainly gay. At least in theory. I just think he’s not interested in ... you know ... physical things. Or even romance. Anything on that front. Whatever he had with Trevor … I doubt it could be called ‘dating’.”

“So? Do you like him because potentially, he’s a good shag, or because he’s an interesting, actually quite lovely guy when you look past him pretending to be this cold, aloof reasoning machine?”

“Who says I like him?”

Sarah pretends to yawn. “La la la. Not listening.”

John laughs. Sarah always manages to lift his mood. “Okay, yes, I do.” His good mood evaporates. “Hope he still likes me, too, after my harsh words.”

“Well, at least he went to fetch me. Perhaps bring him a little gift or something. Now, do you need help with getting dressed?”

“Thank you, Doctor Sawyer, I think I shall manage on my own.”

 

**– <o>–**

 

John doesn’t manage to meet Sherlock at Molly’s because his own massage takes ages. It’s painful, but good. Mike kneads his legs for a long time and devotes equally long to his back and shoulders. John almost falls asleep on the massage table, and has to actively rouse himself to attend dinner, which is served in the hotel’s restaurant. Sherlock is there, but sits with Sam, Kate and Irene, with no space at their table for another diner. So John joins exuberant Stephen, Harry and Kit, who welcome him warmly. Their good spirits and the fact they don’t blame him for underperforming in the slightest cheer him up a little. John watches Sherlock from the corner of his eyes, trying to gauge his mood. Sherlock doesn’t talk much, concentrates on eating instead. He keeps checking his mobile, and slips out before dessert is served, which is unusual for him. John knows that he has a sweet tooth, and from the team’s previous stay, he recalls that the hotel’s puddings are to die for.

The habitual team meeting is scheduled for after dinner. John is tempted to make his excuses and leave but forces himself to sit through it. Sherlock is absent, though, as are Molly and Soo Lin. Lestrade explains that they are checking the bikes of those who crashed, particularly Sherlock’s, as there appear to be grounds for suspicion of sabotage. The rest of the team review some of the footage taken by the helicopter and motorcycle cameras. John watches how the many crashes came to pass, sees Sherlock scoot into the fence to the sound of sympathetic groaning from the team. His long solo ride with Sherlock is well documented, too. Both of them look battle-weary yet resolved and get a surprising amount of screen time. The French commentators of the TV-coverage seem very enthusiastic about their good teamwork, from what John can understand with his basic grasp of the language.

“You did a good job today, John,” Greg tells him. “Don’t let anybody – including yourself – convince you otherwise, okay? You and Sherlock made the best out of a less than ideal situation. Oh, and you may have missed it, but they awarded you the red number for most combative rider. Apparently, it was a close draw between you, Sherlock, and Wilkes. So well done, old man.” He walks over and slaps John’s hale shoulder, handing him a packet that contains the sought-after prize.

John stares at it, swallowing hard. “Cheers,” he manages. Drawing a deep breath and gazing into the round, he adds, “to all of you, really. Today’s been such a hard day for me. I thought about giving up a few times. Seriously. But I’m glad I didn’t, and I hope I’ll manage to stay around for a bit yet.”

“That’s the spirit. Nobody really expected this stage to become the monster it turned out to be,” says Sally. “Tomorrow’s supposed to be fairly easy, at least on paper. It’s the last flat stage before the Alps, meaning all those with sprinters on their teams will try and win something. Actually, we’re quite fortunate that we don’t have Sherlock in yellow any longer, meaning that hopefully, we won’t have to work as hard to defend the jersey. We will try to defend your green one, Stephen, of course, but since chances are high for another sprint finish, it may be up to you and Harry in the end to work hardest for keeping it.”

 

**– <o>–**

 

Sherlock is not in their room when John returns. He is tempted to sink onto the bed and fall asleep. Shower, massage and dinner have revived him somewhat, but he is still utterly exhausted. The thought of wandering around the hotel looking for Sherlock is not at all appealing. John knows he has to apologise, though, and also that if he waits in their room, he’ll probably doze off before Sherlock returns. Also, actively seeking him out will indicate more of an effort made. And John feels he needs to make that effort.

Thankfully, curiosity compels him to take a look out of the window. It faces westward across the courtyard with its ornamental lawns and adjacent battlements, behind which green meadows merge into wooded hills, with the Morvan a blue, wavy line in the distance. The sun has almost gone down behind these hills, gilding the leaves of wild vines covering the wall and peeking into the window. The courtyard is already cast into shadow, with a hotel employee folding the large parasols scattered on the lawns. On the left end of the courtyard is a buttress, the remains of an old tower, perhaps, its walls partly grown with ivy, a round green bush situated in the middle of a small grassy patch. Next to it, his hands on the rough wall on the battlement, a solitary figure stands gazing out over the landscape. John recognises his dark, wind-tousled hair right away.

As quickly as his tired legs allow, he makes his way downstairs, passing by the restaurant in the hopes of meeting Mrs. Turner, who has been working together with the hotel’s kitchen staff to prepare today’s evening meal. Luck is with him again. He finds her in conversation with the hotel’s manager and the chef. They’re probably making last plans for breakfast.

“Oh, hello, John,” she says. “Anything we can do for you?”

“Er, yes, actually. I was wondering if you had any desserts left, or anything you could make quickly.”

Mrs. Turner translates for the chef who apparently doesn’t understand much English. He replies in quick French. John catches terms such as _mousse au chocolat blanc avec des framboises_ and _crème brûlée_ , but then his French deserts him.

“Monsieur Surcouf says there are some portions left over from dinner, and he’d be happy to bring you some.”

“Brilliant. _Merci beaucoup. C’est pour mon ami,_ ” John tells the cook, who nods and bustles off.

“Your friend who left before dessert tonight, eh?” enquires Mrs. Turner with an amused glint in her eyes. She is a sprightly lady of undefinable age. John thinks she must be about seventy, but she seems both younger and older. She is Mrs. Hudson’s younger sister, more than two heads taller than her, broad where Mrs. H. is slight, her hair dyed a flaming red. She always wears red lipstick, too.

John blushes almost as crimson as her hair, silently cursing himself for being so transparent. “I have an apology to make.”

She cocks a finely plucked eyebrow. “I know, young man. Better you hurry, then. Henri is going to conjure up something.”

“Thanks, Mrs. T., you’re a saint.”

She laughs dirtily. “Dear me, I’m anything but one. But I like to look after my boys and girls.”

“I know. Any chance of more of your wonderful honey bars? Sherlock gave me one and it was great. Really helped on the road today when I was feeling a bit shit.”

She watches him with a shrewd expression. “Oh, there are some left, and I hope to make new ones during the rest day on Monday. It was actually Sherlock who suggested the extra bit of honey. I should have had the idea myself, really, particularly with our new co-sponsor and the wonderful honey they produce. Anyway, I’m glad you enjoyed it. Not everybody likes their bars like this, but obviously Sherlock and you do. Ah, there’s Henri. Sure it’s gorgeous. Can’t imagine that your … friend won’t forgive you now.” She winks at John who is handed a covered plate, spoon and fork by Henri. The chef grins at him happily.

“ _Bon appetit,_ ” he says.

 

**– <o>–**

 

On his way to the battlements, fervently hoping that Sherlock is still there, John has a peek at the plate. On there, beautifully arranged with raspberries, some kind of red sauce, flower petals and swirls of tempered chocolate is a large portion of white _mousse au chocolat._ Even though John has eaten as much as he thinks his still troublesome stomach can handle, the dessert does look inviting. Hopefully, Sherlock will think so, too, and accept it as an apology and a plea for forgiveness.

Sherlock is still there, standing very still. He is holding a camera with a long telephoto lens in both hands. To announce his arrival and give Sherlock a chance to prepare himself – or leave in case he doesn’t want company – John treads heavily on the gravel paths. He sees Sherlock’s shoulders tense. He doesn’t lower the camera, however, nor turn to John. Only when he has stepped onto the patch of grass does Sherlock’s head twitch towards him.

“Come to apologise, have you?” he states, his voice calm and even.

John lets out a long breath. “Yeah. But if I’m interrupting something ... I mean ... if you want me to leave again, I will. I just—”

“ _Mousse_ or _crème brûlée_?” Sherlock interrupts him, still gazing intently through the camera’s seeker.

John has no idea how he deduced he is carrying dessert. “Uh ... _mousse._ With raspberries and ... er ... stuff.”

“Acceptable. Preferable to _crème brûlée._ You can leave it on the wall here.”

The cold tone stings a little. John tells himself he deserves it. He steps closer and places the plate on the crumbling masonry in front of Sherlock. “I ... uh ... I’ll be off again, then.”

“I thought you wanted to apologise.” Sherlock lowers the camera and turns to gaze at John. His eyes are narrowed and his lips pressed together, but he looks more curious than angry, and even, if John is reading his expression correctly, a little amused.

John swallows, draws himself up slightly. “Yes, I do. Sherlock, I’m sorry I called you a freak and told you to fuck off. Today’s been shit, really. I don’t think I’ve ever hit rock bottom like this during a Tour, especially not so early. But I shouldn’t have vented on you like that, when you were just trying to help. So ... sorry. I really am.”

Sherlock watches him for a long time, his expression unreadable. At length he stirs, cocks his head. “Is it always going to be like this, then? You getting angry, insulting your friends, and then hoping they’ll accept your apology when you bring them sweets?”

Taken aback by the underlying implication, John stares at him, before biting his lip and hanging his head. The description is all too familiar. His dad, getting angry about something which most of the time was his own fault, and then venting on his wife and children, hurting them with his words (albeit never, thankfully, with anything else). After he’d cooled down again and come to his senses he always apologised, trying to make up with gifts and promises never to react like this again. Empty promises. John remembers how at one point, Harry, always the most outspoken one, called him out on his behaviour, calling it what it was: abusive. It led to the final, unrepairable rift between them, deeply entrenched as they were already after Harry had come out as a lesbian. Shame rises like bile in John. He’s always striven so hard not be become like his father. And now Sherlock is holding up a mirror to him and as in the ensuite earlier, John sees his dad reflected in himself.

Sherlock must have noticed that his words wrought something within John, because his expression changes to one of curiosity, then understanding and, what John hates, pity. Almost immediately, though, it switches again. Sherlock looks intrigued, and, to John’s surprise, playful. His tense shoulders relax, and his eyes sparkle with mischief.

“I had this plan of letting you stew a bit for hitting out at me like you did before accepting your apology. But even though reading people’s emotions is not my strong suit, I believe your apology and moreover your remorse are genuine. You did warn me about your anger issues, although you shouldn’t take them as a carte blanche for insulting people whenever you have a not so good day. Also, I shall warn you now that should you lunge out like that at me in the future, I hope you can withstand the echo. Because I’m not prepared to let myself be insulted like this any longer. Not by you, nor my teammates, nor the press or the online trolls. I’ve been called ‘freak’ or worse almost all my life, and I’m tired of it. In your favour, I know you didn’t mean it. You’re not an evil, spiteful person, John Watson, just a bit hot-headed and hot-blooded, with a certain deficiency in what is called ‘people skills’ nowadays, I believe.”

“Says the man who by his own admission never shared a room before now,” mutters John before he can stop himself.

Sherlock cocks an eyebrow. “Yes, says the very man. Apology accepted, John Watson, but don’t tell me to ‘fuck off’ again. I won’t, I told you. You’ll have to fuck off yourself to get rid of me.”

“Is that a threat or a promise.” _Oops, where did this come from? Shit._

Sherlock gazes at him, his expression intrigued. The faintest of smiles is playing around his lips. “Whatever you want it to be. And now, spoon and fork, please, before this _mousse_ melts. You can hold the camera while I eat.”

John steps next to him, hands him the cutlery and received the heavy Canon in return. “What’s the camera for, anyway? And where did you get it? Robbed one of the paparazzi to get a tele lens like this? You don’t strike me as the kind of bloke who likes to photograph the countryside, although it is quite nice round here. Guess you could almost see the antenna up on Haut-Folin with this lens. It must be as strong as a pair of binoculars.”

“You can, actually. It’s over there,” says Sherlock round a mouthful of dessert. He points at the blue line of hills in the distance. “But I was surveilling something closer at hand. Train the camera over there, on the new part of the town beyond the old city wall. The building with the many gables, and particularly the car park next to it.”

John does so. “Looks like a team coach and a couple of cars.  Mostly black, though. Brook Consulting?”

“Yes. The building is their hotel. Not all teams are accommodated in Autun, some have already moved on to tomorrow’s start town to save themselves an early transfer. But luckily, Brook Consulting are still here.”

“I can see another coach. Poison green ... must be Baskerville. There are other cars as well. Two look like taxis. They’re just arriving.”

“Oh, they are back. Interesting.” Sherlock gazes at his wristwatch. “22:18. Meaning they’ve been gone for about an hour.”

“Who?”

“I couldn’t recognise faces. They’re too far away, even with the telephoto lens. But one of them is tall and blond, and the other small and dark-haired. Correct?

John watches several persons step out of the taxis. “Yeah. Could be Moran and Moriarty, actually. There’s someone else. Wiggins? Tall and scrawny, wears a hood. There are two others I don’t recognise at all. Could be team staff. Physios or doctors.”

“Yes, that’s what I thought as well when I watched them leave.”

“Why did they take taxis to leave their accommodation? Whereabouts did they go? They don’t strike me as the kind of chaps who’d go and visit the cathedral, especially not at this time of day. Most riders are abed by now, or should be, at least.”

“All good, valid questions. Take photos while you are watching. It might be nothing, but after everything that happened today, every little thing out of the norm should be considered.”

John leans onto the wall to steady his arms as he snaps a few pictures. He doubts they’re going to be any good. Dusk has fallen but the streetlamps haven’t been switched on yet. He has to choose a long aperture, doubting that he’ll manage to keep the camera still enough throughout it. The dark figures on the car park quickly vanish inside their hotel, leaving the place deserted when the taxis drive off again.

John remembers Sherlock’s visit to Molly’s workshop. “Did you find anything wrong with your bike?”

Sherlock makes a vague gesture with his fork. “Neither Molly nor I can be certain, unfortunately. There isn’t enough evidence. All damage on my bike could be explained by my initial and subsequent crash. The faulty gear shift was almost certainly caused by the impact of the former, which pushed the front derailleur slightly out of alignment. I fully trust Molly and her team to keep our bikes in the best possible condition. They are watched at night, and never without supervision during the race. It would have been very difficult for anybody to tamper with them.”

“And yet ...,” prompts John.

Sherlock inclines his head. “And yet. I had a thorough look at the rear brake cable. It was frayed, as it would be if it snapped of its own accord. But it’s not as frayed as it should have been. Also, the breaking point is very close to the actual brake, where the cable isn’t protected by the tubing of the frame anymore.”

“And where somebody could actually reach it, you mean. Maybe someone who helped you onto your bike again after your first crash. Helpful spectator with a multitool or something similar.”

“Precisely. Unfortunately, I didn’t pay close enough attention to who was around and may have touched the bike. I’ve kept the cable, though, and will forward it to some acquaintances of mine with a background of forensics who will examine it more closely.”

“You believe it was sabotage, then?”

“I have too little hard evidence for a verdict, and I don’t base my deductions on belief. But being hit by so much bad luck in one day ... it seems more than mere coincidence, particularly when said bad luck was doled out so ... strategically.”

“Are you referring to Wilkes?”

“Yes. Have you had a chance to watch the footage of his crash?”

“Saw it at the team meeting. Nasty accident.”

“It wasn’t an accident. The _musette_ was thrown deliberately. It looks as if it was dropped by a rider, but if you look closely, you can see that it was thrown from somewhere else. Unfortunately, no recording I have had access to has been clear as to its origin in the crowds. The little bag also appears to have been weighted down by something other than cake to cause more damage on impact. You can tell from its trajectory. Also, did you pay attention to what happened to it?”

“No, course not.”

“Pity. I did. It was snatched up by a bystander who immediately vanished into the crowds. He wore a hooded jumper despite the heat. Coincidence? I don’t think so.”

“So this was an attack on Wilkes?” asks John incredulously. “Don’t you think you’re overdramatising things?”

Sherlock sniffs haughtily. “Overdramatising? Certainly not. Look at the evidence, John. I don’t have good enough mobile reception here, but back in our room I’ll show you the footage of Wilkes’ crash again if you want. It was manufactured. It wasn’t an accident. I really need to talk to him. I’m convinced he is going to agree. His team isn’t accommodated in Autun, unfortunately, so it’ll have to wait till tomorrow. According to Anthea and other sources I have at my disposal, he and his team have asked for an investigation, not just by Tour officials, but French police as well. They wouldn’t do this for no reason, would they?”

John whistles softly, running a hand through his hair. “Wow. This Tour ... it’s something, isn’t it? I’m sure there have been criminal activities during other stage races as well, but I must say I’ve never been aware of what was going on.”

Sherlock smiles wryly. “Welcome to my world.”

John laughs. “Indeed. Not that I was asking for all the extra excitement, but I can’t say I dislike it. So things are always this dangerous round you?”

“Occasionally, yes,” says Sherlock modestly. “Amid periods of almost unbearable boredom, though.”

“What do you do during those?”

Sherlock shrugs, chasing a raspberry on his plate with his fork. “Occupy myself with scientific experiments, music, cycling. In the past, I didn’t always succeed, though.”

“The drugs?”

“Yes, when I was younger. Not anymore, though. They didn’t really help, after all.” He takes a deep breath, then pushes the plate over to John. “Do you want the rest? Would be a shame to have to throw it away.”

John takes the spoon and begins to eat what remains of the _mousse,_ before handing the plate back to Sherlock to place it on the wall next to him. With a deep breath, John puts both hands on top of the wall and leans forward, propping himself against it. Sherlock mirrors his position. John doesn’t know if it happens by accident or design. Their fingers brush against each other. Sherlock’s breath hitches ever so slightly, John sees him tense minutely and then relax again. Sherlock swallows audibly. He doesn’t move his hand, though. Neither does John, and so they stand with their pinkies overlapping.

For a while, neither of them speaks. Bats flutter around them. They must live in the old masonry or the forest that lies like a dark mass in front of the two silent watchers. To the right, in the newer part of the town, lights appear along streets and in houses while in the west, over the hills of the Morvan, dusk lingers in shades of purple and pink slowly darkening into violets and blues.

“Thank you for your help today, John,” Sherlock says quietly. “I would have lost more time without you.”

“Likewise. Thanks for pulling me along. I really don’t know what I’m going to do in the Alps if this continues. I thought I was reasonably fit, but right now, I feel anything but.”

“The weather has taken a toll on us all. And it’s not forecast to get any cooler.”

“Usually, I don’t mind the heat. But this is excessive, you’re right.”

“Have you spoken to Mrs. Turner, Sarah and the physios about changes to nutrition and hydration during stages? You may be losing too many electrolytes, hence your cramps.”

“Yeah, mentioned it. Oh, thanks for the honey bar, by the way. It was brilliant. Mrs. T. said you suggested changes to her recipe. Like honey, do you?”

“Yes, I do. I like bees, too. I’d like to keep some eventually.”

“When?”

Sherlock shrugs. “When I retire. I haven’t given it any concrete thought so far.”

John nods slowly. “Do you have any plans beyond this Tour?”

“Concerning pro-cycling?”

“Yeah. Or anything, really.”

Sherlock looks out over the dark fields and patches of forest. “No.”

“No plans of ... don’t know, getting married, raising a family, that kind of thing?”

Sherlock turns to him, looking positively scandalised. “You’re joking.”

John laughs softly. “I am, yes. Guess that’s not your kind of thing.”

“Would it be yours?”

Now it’s John’s turn to fall into contemplative silence. “Dunno. I thought so, at a time. Many riders are married, have kids. Many who are much younger than me. I always wondered how that worked for a pro-cyclist. I mean, you’re away from home so much throughout the season. Not really conducive to family life, is it?”

“Comfortable, though, for the partner and parent who is away and can unload all the work and responsibility onto their spouse.”

“Yeah, that’s true. And you need a partner who’s okay with that, I guess, and you’d have to be okay with not seeing your partner for long spells. Gregson and Hopkins are spending most of their evenings on Skype to talk to their wives and kids. For me, cycling always came first. Sure, I had relationships. The one with Sarah was the longest and most serious. Had fun, too. Casual things, you know. Most of my relationships were like that, come to think of it. Somehow, I always thought that once I retired, I’d find someone to settle down with. But I haven’t really started looking. Everything that comes after Paris still seems so far away.”

“Little more than a fortnight, John,” Sherlock reminds him. Having it spelled out like this comes as a shock. John swallows.

“That’s rather soon, if you put it that way. I haven’t even sorted out my living arrangements. I’d like to stay in London, but my place there is tiny and I couldn’t afford anything grander with what I’ve put away. Must find a proper job, I guess, or some good advertising or coaching deal. My sister’s offered to move in with her, but I don’t know. We get along fairly well, but actually sharing a flat with her ... What?”

Sherlock has been watching him with a strange, intense expression. “Got a spare room, have you?”

“Actually, yes, I have. As you may have heard, I live in a flat above the original Speedy’s Cafe on Baker Street. Mrs. Hudson still owns it and lives downstairs when she’s in town. She’s my landlady.”

“Wow, really? I thought she lived on some grand estate in the countryside, or jet-setted round the globe.”

“She has more than one house, obviously, but I think she likes the neighbourhood.”

“How did you end up renting her flat?”

“Oh, I helped her a few years ago. Her husband got himself sentenced to death in Florida.“

“So you prevented him from being executed?”

“Oh no, I ensured it. He was a vile abuser, involved in human trafficking and drug and arms dealing on a large scale. Mrs. Hudson was glad to be rid of him, and moreover inherit his fortune, which she has been putting to good use, not just by sponsoring this cycling team, but also supporting a number of sports projects for disadvantaged children.”

“Yeah, I’ve been involved in a few events benefitting or promoting her charities. Were you serious about the flatshare?”

Sherlock watches him, inclines his head. “You have proved tolerable enough to not annoy me, and you may actually be helpful when it comes to casework. You’re adequately intelligent, work well as a sounding board, and have a penchant for ... let me call them slightly reckless activities. I’d say we’re a good fit.” His voice and expression are calm and matter-of-factly, but despite the relative darkness, John can see the tightly controlled eagerness in his bearing. Sherlock wants this, he realises. They’ve only known each other for less than a week, and yet here is Sherlock, a man who by all accounts has been on his own and fending for himself all his life, offering a near stranger to share said life – or at least living arrangements. _Don’t read too much into this. It’s just the offer of a flatshare. Many folks in London and elsewhere are sharing nowadays too keep the costs down._ And yet ... and yet ... For Sherlock to make such an offer ...

“I’ll definitely consider it, although I’m not sure I’d be able to afford it. Baker Street ... that’s Central London. Rent must cost a fortune.”

“Mrs. Hudson is giving me a special deal. I’m sure she’d be delighted to have you move in. She’s been nagging me to get a flatmate for some time.”

John laughs softly, running a hand through his hair. “Worried about you, is she?”

“Apparently yes.” Sherlock smiles as well, his features soft in the gloom.

John looks down to where their hands are still touching, gives Sherlock’s a light pat and finally removes his. “I’ll check out this place of yours once we’re back in London.”

“Good. For now, I’d suggest we return to our room. The mosquitoes are out on the hunt. I’ve been bitten twice already.”

 

**– <o>–**

 

By the time they make it to their room, John is completely knackered. Sherlock, too, has been barely suppressing yawns for the past half hour. However, when after turns in the bathroom and a change of clothes they are finally lying in bed, with as much space between them as they can contrive in the spacious double, John can’t seem to fall asleep. Sherlock, too, is restless, turning this way and that, struggling with the blanket as it seems to aggravate his injuries, and obviously not able at all to relax.

“Everything itches,” he complains into the darkness after flopping onto his back with a dramatic sigh. “My injuries, the mosquito bites, the soles of my feet, my scalp. Do you mind if I do some more research on my laptop for a while?”

“No, go ahead. I can’t seem to fall asleep, either. Didn’t you want to show me the Wilkes footage?”

“Right, yes. Let me get the computer.”

Soon after, they are seated side by side. Sherlock is surprisingly warm. John can feel heat radiating from him. It’s intimate. He wonders if he feels that hot to Sherlock, too. Also, surely, Sherlock must have noticed that he used his shampoo. He hasn’t commented on it, though.

“You haven’t been paying attention, John,” complains Sherlock. John pulls himself together.

“Sorry. Tired.”

Sherlock’s eyebrow twitches up when he gives John an arch look. “Indeed. Here, I’ll play the video again. Watch closely. There. See?”

John frowns at the screen. “Yeah, you may be onto something. On the tv-broadcast it looked as if the bag was simply dropped by another rider, but in this video you can clearly see it was thrown by that chap with the hoodie who also retrieves it afterwards – it seems to be the same person.”

“Yes, it could be two different people but much speaks for it being one person.”

“Still, since you can’t see their faces, and the Tour is such a public event, it’d be nearly impossible to get hold of them. Are you going to forward this video to Wilkes and his team?”

“I need to talk to him first. I wouldn’t want to compromise my sources.”

“Right.” John yawns. “Have you checked the headlines and comments about the stage?”

“Some, yes. Wilkes gets much praise for struggling the way he did and only losing two minutes in the end. As in fact do we. Some are critical of Brook Consulting and the other teams who pushed for a stage win. But then, that’s the Tour. Most viewers seem to have appreciated the excitement of the stage. And Victor is obviously enjoying his time in the limelight,” he adds a little disdainfully.

John decides not to dwell on the subject. “Yeah, sure, because they weren’t the ones who had to ride it.”

Sherlock gives him a long, critical look. “You’re not still thinking about giving up, are you?”

John shrugs, absently smoothing down the blanket over his legs. “I ... no, I’m not. I think I’ll manage tomorrow, and hopefully the two days in the Alps before the rest day. I’ll simply ride _groupetto_ if I can. Not sure if I’m going to be much help to the rest of the team. What about you? Lie low until the next time trial? Or are you going to fight for your podium place or top ten ranking?”

“We’ll see. I didn’t lose as much time as I feared today. Usually, I’m not entirely useless in the high mountains, but this Tour has been much harder for me than my previous one.”

John grins at him. “Haha, yes, I bet. Know why?”

“The hot weather, the additional pressure from the press—”

“Okay, yes, that’ll all play a part. But also, you’re ten years older, mate. Riders younger than you have already retired. You may not be as ancient as me,  but you’re old for a rider.”

Sherlock laughs softly. “Right now, I feel ancient, too.”

“Welcome to the club. Oh, click on that video.”

“Which one?”

“The ‘John Watson: I’m too sexy’ one.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Really, John?” he scoffs when a compilation of images and short video sequences from various years edited in as the notorious song begins to play.

“Hey, I’ve been feeling shit all day,” John defends himself. “I’m entitled to a little ego-boost.”

Sherlock sighs dramatically but smiles all the same. The video is amateurish and actually quite funny. Whoever made it found near-perfect images for the various lines of the song. “I’m too sexy for Milan” has footage from Milano-San Remo, “I shake my little tush on the catwalk” shows John standing in the pedals and wriggling his behind.

“When was this?” Sherlock wants to know upon the second watch when during “I’m too sexy for my shirt” there is a sequence of John struggling uphill with his jersey wide open and his naked chest on full display.

John yawns again, sits up a little straighter as he’s begun to melt down the headboard. “Can’t you deduce it?”

Sherlock’s eyes sparkle. “Let me see,” he rumbles and pauses the video. “Team Speedy’s jersey from four, no five, years ago. You were riding in a breakaway and have jumped ahead to strive for a stage win. It’s a stage with a mountain finish. The landscape is rough, you have almost reached the tree-line. High mountains, then. The vegetation isn’t right for the Alps. It could be in the Pyrenees, ah, but no. The rocks ... it’s the ascent to Mont Ventoux, shortly before the forest gives way to the rocky moonscape surrounding the summit. You narrowly missed out on a stage win that day because the winds were so strong further up that you lacked the strength for a final sprint and were reeled in by the GC contenders on the last kilometre before the finish. Nice shot, though.”

John nods darkly at the memory. He’d almost won the prestigious stage. It was the first time he really felt his age and lack of end-speed was impairing him. As usual, the winds on the summit of Mont Ventoux had been criminally strong, and he’d just not managed to ride any faster, even the extra motivation and adrenaline that came with a part of the peloton chasing him. He’d won the red number that day and had enjoyed extra screen time for his long solo struggle uphill – a consolation prize. Sherlock’s last words cut through his contemplations. He turns to him.

“You think so?”

It’s difficult to be sure with the cold blue light from the laptop screen and Sherlock’s sunburn, but his cheeks look flushed of a sudden. He swallows and avoids meeting John’s eyes, restarting the video again so that John almost doesn’t hear him mutter, “Well, judged objectively, you’re an attractive man. Well-proportioned, not too scrawny for a professional cyclist. You tan well, and you look young and a little roguish when you smile, particularly when it’s your lopsided grin.”

John stares at him, not quite knowing what to reply. He decides to help both of them by dissolving the awkwardness of the situation with humour. “Well-proportioned, eh? Interesting of you to say that after you’ve seen me naked in the shower.”

Now the blush definitely deepens. “That’s not what I was referring to,” returns Sherlock quickly, looking mortified.

John laughs. He bumps his shoulder playfully. “I’m teasing you, Sherlock. Thank you for your help, earlier, by the way, and sorry again for having been such a dick towards you.”

Sherlock lifts he head to gaze at him. “You are forgiven. And please refrain from similar breakdowns in the future. Oh for God’s sake,” he then growls at the screen. Autoplay has started another video of John, a compilation of ‘private’ moments with Sherlock, mostly taken from official Tour de France footage. There they are after the Prologue, with John’s arms round Sherlock’s shoulders, there are their conversations _en route,_ there’s Sherlock handing John the honey bar, and there are many candid shots of either of them gazing at the other.

 _Gazing longingly,_ John’s mind supplies unhelpfully. _If ever there was a personification of ‘pining’, you’d be it._ God, he looks like a star-struck or lovelorn teenager watching their idol. But interestingly, there are images of Sherlock doing the same with him. The man next to John has fallen silent again, a frown on his face as he surveys the video.

“You should lower your saddle again by a centimetre or two,” he says at length. “It might put some more stress on your knee, but that will not be as critical on the flats tomorrow as it might in the mountains. Not having to stretch your leg so much should help with the cramping.”

John nods. Has Sherlock really not noticed – Sherlock, one of the most observant men there is – or has he deliberately steered the topic away from treacherous ground? “Thanks, yes, I will do that,” he mutters. A yawn threatens to split his face in two. Sherlock yawns as well.

“It’s past midnight,” he says absently, pausing the video and shutting the laptop to put it onto the floor next to his side of the bed. John scoots down until he is lying flat on his back. One of his bare legs accidentally brushes against Sherlock’s when he, too, is settling down on his back. Like John he is wearing t-shirt and boxers to bed. He feels Sherlock tense briefly. Neither withdraws his leg, though.

“You haven’t shaved,” states Sherlock quietly after a slightly awkward silence.

John huffs. “Couldn’t be arsed to, not after the catastrophe in the shower. Was glad to manage to soap and rinse.” He rubs his calf against Sherlock’s once more, feeling tight muscle and faint stubble. “Neither have you.”

“Injuries,” replies Sherlock round a swallow.

They gaze at each other and begin to laugh. “Guess we’ll be the hairy brigade tomorrow, then,” quips John.

Sherlock chuckles. “You’re too sexy for your razor.”

“I’m too sexy for this Tour,” returns John. “But I _will_ do my utmost to ride it through to the end,” he adds in a more serious tone.

“Good.” Sherlock shifts onto his side, his back to John. “Good night, John.”

John smiles at his back, feeling something light and bubbly settle on his heart. “Good night, Sherlock.”

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> As usual with my fics, there will be illustrations for each chapter. You can find them at my [tumblr](https://khorazir.tumblr.com) under the #slipstream tag.


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